Masks
by Smart Aleckette
Summary: "All men wear masks - whether it be over their faces, or over their hearts." In Diego Armando's case, he wore them over both, beginning with that fateful case that shaped the rest of his life. . . Mia x Diego.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Yes, a new fic from me – published two months after I said it would be out. -is lazy-**

**Obviously, this fic is about Diego, who is one of my favourite characters from the series, despite the fact Capcom doesn't give us much to go on. Why's he a lawyer? What happened between 3-4 and his "death?" Why's he addicted to coffee? And a million other random, unimportant questions that have no answers. This is my take on. . . well, everything, I guess. And yes, even though it's not marked "Romance," there will be Miego later on. :)**

**By the way, I'm aware that the prologue may be confusing, especially when it comes to the voice. It's relevant in later chapters, and it'll make sense the farther along you read, so just be patient and all will be explained. :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ace Attorney, and I clearly don't own the featured quotes.**

* * *

**Prologue**

"_Criminals do not die at the hands of the law; they die at the hands of other men."-George Bernard Shaw_

**-X-X-X-**

The world was frozen.

Shimmering flakes of snow stood suspended in the darkness, the smell of blood hanging heavily in the icy winter air. The nearby river had stopped running, and the wind itself had ceased to blow – there wasn't a sound to be heard on the whole mountain. All that could be seen was the shadow of a man standing in the middle of the small garden, staring sightlessly at the ground at his feet, desperately clutching the hilt of a long sword in his frozen fingers.

"Damn it!" he whispered to himself, his eyes fixed in horror on something that he could not see. "Why did I do that? It wasn't supposed to turn out like this!"

As if his words had triggered it, a bolt of lightning briefly illuminated the scene before fading away, shattering the illusion of stillness. The snow began to fall again, and icy gusts of wind began to tug at his white hair and at his clothes, making him shiver. He felt a burning pain beneath his left eye, and something wet and sticky trickling down his cheek, but he didn't dare release the sword to make sure his eye was still in place. In his stunned mind, the sword hilt was the last shred of sanity in a world that had just run mad.

He'd experienced some bizarre, frightening, deadly things over the course of his life, but he had never seen anything like this in his life. His mind was still trying to process what had just happened, what he had just done. All he could remember was a blur of shadows, pain, and a flash of plunging silver met with a harrowing scream.

_I just killed someone._

It seemed to take a colossal effort to come to that simple, four-word conclusion. It sent a wave of panic crashing over him, making him feel weak and jittery. He tried to take a deep breath, tried to think rationally, tried to distract himself from the body that lay at his feet. Now, of all times, was not the time to panic. Now was a time for cool-headedness and action.

But first, he needed to see.

He swept the temple garden with his eyes, grateful for the distraction from the body. After a moment, he spotted something lying embedded in a nearby snowbank. Slowly, reluctantly, he willed himself to let go of the sword and scrambled toward the snowbank, his fingers touching cool metal. Quickly, he grabbed the object – a mask, _his_ mask – and jammed it onto his face. In the same motion, he whipped around, his heart hammering, half-expecting the dead body to have jumped up to attack him again.

The body stayed dead.

He let out a small breath, ashamed at himself. He was acting like a small child who was afraid of the darkness and noises of the night. Still, his eyes lingered for a moment suspiciously on the body – it would not surprise him if it was only acting dead, after what he had just experienced – before he remembered why he was there in the first place.

Suddenly stricken with panic again, he looked around, his mask little aid in the darkness. Then he caught a glimpse of another body, this one of a girl in her late teens, slumped at the foot of a white stone lantern that stood tall and intimidating in the middle of the garden. He ran over to her and, kneeling down, grabbed her wrist, desperately search for a pulse.

He couldn't find one.

Fear gripped him as his hands scrabbled over her wrist, desperately searching for the tiniest sign of life.

Then he felt it – her pulse, beating rather faintly, but at what seemed to be a normal rate. She had merely fainted from shock.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his relief wash over him, making him feel even weaker than he felt already. If she had died, this would have all been for nothing. He would have killed someone for nothing.

He opened his eyes again and, carefully and more gently than he had believed himself capable of, he scooped her up in his arms and stood slowly, bracing himself for her weight. She was surprisingly light – but then again, she was only a small thing, and even if she had been a dead weight in his arms, he would have still carried her away from the garden, because her safety was the most important thing that night.

Even more important than his life.

Slowly, he began to walk out of the garden, toward the small wreck that served as a temple, the only shelter on their side of the mountain. He could barely see in the darkness – he had to squint just to see where his feet were going, and he worried that he might accidentally trip and drop her. Luckily, he made it to the building without any accidents.

She did not stir as he gently nudged the temple door open, feeling a blast of cold air hit him squarely in the face. Shivering partly due to the cold, he set her feet down on the floor and reached into his pocket, extracted a box of matches for just such an occasion, and lit the lamps inside. The flames guttered in the wind that slipped in through the open door, but they did not die out. They sent shadows dancing along the walls, making him shiver again – he glanced over his shoulder at the door, just to double-check that nothing sinister had followed them inside.

Satisfied that all was well, he rummaged behind an ancient dresser and found some blankets. Carefully, he wrapped her up in them, thinking it was the least he could do after what she'd just had to go through.

When he finished, she still hadn't woken up. Her face was pale beneath her dark hair, her eyes closed. If it hadn't been for the expression of fright on her face, you would have thought her to be merely asleep.

He knelt there on the floor for a moment, prolonging the moment when he would have to go back outside and deal with the mess in the garden. He felt a stab of guilt, knowing he would soon be leaving her to wake up in the cold, dark temple, alone with the shadows and the memories.

But it was better than letting her wake up in the bloody garden outside.

Anything was better than that.

"I'm sorry, Maya," he said to her, his voice barely audible over the howling wind outside. "I didn't want it to happen like this. Just. . . stay alive. Please."

There was no reply.

He did not expect one.

Quietly, he stood up and left the temple, closing the door behind him.

Outside, in the frigid winter air, he tried to collect his wits about him. He felt another stab of regret for leaving her inside that. . . wreck, if it was good enough to be called a wreck. If he had a choice, he would have stayed with her until she woke up.

The thing was, he didn't have a choice.

In an attempt to distract himself from his thoughts, he plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. With numb fingers, he fumbled with it, and managed to open it without dropping it into the snow. He would need to make the call eventually – why not now?

_Because you're a coward, _the small, truthful voice inside his head told him. _You don't want to go back to that garden. You can't bear to face up to what you've done. You've never been able to face the consequences of your actions, have you, Diego?_

Shakily, he dialled a number and jammed the phone to his ear, waiting for the person on the other end to pick up. How he'd hoped he wouldn't have to make this call. Yes, he'd never wanted to use this number. And yet, what could he do? It was part of the plan, and she had agreed. It was his only option. There was nothing else left for him to choose.

_You have the choice, _the same voice told him torturously._ You have always had the choice. You know this, Diego. So tell me, why? Why do you choose to ignore that choice? Why must you push the blame for your actions onto someone else? Why don't you be a man, and take the blame for yourself for once?_

There was a click, and a woman's voice, calm and sweet and pleasant, answered. "This is Iris."

He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the moment of the telling. He couldn't show his weakness, not now, not ever. He had to be Godot, the fearless, calm, cocky man who was never fazed, not by blood or by murder or by spirits returning from the dead. He couldn't allow himself to be Diego, the frightened, vulnerable man who was afraid of his own existence.

"This is Godot," he managed to say into the phone, in what sounded like his usual tone. The normalcy of his voice almost scared him – especially after taking into account that this was taking place right after he had killed someone.

"Mr. Godot! What happened?" Iris's voice suddenly became both eager and reluctant, as if torn between wanting to hear the answer quickly and afraid of what the answer might be.

". . . Misty's dead."

There was silence on the other end of the phone as Iris absorbed this piece of news. "Who did it, Mr. Godot?" she finally asked in her soft, quiet way.

"I did."

The words hung in the air, terrible and real, and yet, he said it so nonchalantly, as if it were an everyday thing to admit to murder. Especially when the victim had been a co-conspirator, an ally, almost a friend.

"How did it happen?" Iris inquired softly.

"I stabbed her with that sword of hers," he replied casually, once again spooked by the tone of his voice. "She's in the garden right now."

"And Maya?"

"She's alive. So at least it wasn't for nothing," he answered.

Iris breathed a sigh of relief.

"Don't relax yet," he advised her. "We've still got to clean up the garden. We can't make it look like there was any murder here. Maya would definitely be the prime suspect."

The taunting voice in his head spoke again. _She wouldn't be the prime suspect if you could just take responsibility for what you've done. But you can't do that, can you Diego? Or maybe it's not a question of what you can and can't do. The question is of what you're _willing_ to do._

"You're still ready for you part in the plan?" he asked, ignoring the taunting voice.

He could hear the determination in her voice when, without even a slight hesitation, she said, "Of course, Mr. Godot."

"All right, then. Let's do this."

He hung up his cell phone, slipped it into his pocket, and made his way cautiously back into the garden. The body still lay in a heap in the snow, soaking the ground in blood that he couldn't see. Feeling numb all over (from the cold or shock, he couldn't tell), he gazed down at the dead woman, the sword still wedged tightly into her back.

_Why did I do that? _he asked himself. _Why did I kill her? For all I knew, that could have been Maya, or even that little girl, but I ran her through with that sword anyway. Why did I do it?_

In a way that had become almost a reflex, he was reminded of one of his many rules: Don't ask a question if you don't already know the answer, and this answer he knew well. Even in the darkest of nights, there would have been no difficulty for him to identify the woman he'd killed. The body at his feet might have been that of Misty Fey, one of his allies, but when he'd plunged that blade through her back, she hadn't been Misty Fey.

She had been Dahlia Hawthorne.

The woman who killed him.


	2. Coins And Murder

**I took a while with writing this. The last couple of weeks have been hectic because they were the last weeks of school, but it's all over (finally). Does it mean I'm going to be updating a lot more? Probably not. It just means I have less really lame excuses for procrastinating. XD**

**If you couldn't tell by the first bit of this chapter, I really hate guidance counsellors. Like, really, really **_**hate**_** them. Especially mine. She's crazy. (Apparently, when she said to stand up for bullying victims, she didn't actually mean it.)**

**Other than that, I don't have many other comments. So read on, before I bore you to death with my pointless ramblings. XD**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**Coins And Murder**

"_Nothing happens by chance, my friend. . . no such thing as luck. A meaning behind every little thing, and such a meaning behind this. Part for you, part for me, may not see it all real clear right now, but we will, before long." -Richard Bach_

**-X-X-X-**

Everything would have been different if the coin had landed tails.

That's how Diego Armando later came to think of his life. If the coin hadn't landed tails, he wouldn't have become a defence attorney. If he'd never become a defence attorney, he would never have gone to support a new lawyer in her first trial. If he'd never gone to that trial, he would never have begun to investigate that kidnapping case. If he'd never investigated that case, he would never have been poisoned by that woman. . .

And to think, almost every major event in his life, almost every hardship, was built upon that small, innocent coin toss in eighth grade.

Sometimes he wondered, when all he could do was think the days away, what would have happened if the coin had landed tails.

Sometimes he wondered if he wanted to know.

**-X-X-X-**

It started during Diego's eighth grade career consultation.

It was February, the time of year when representatives from the various city high schools spoke to the entire eighth grade about how high school worked – specifically, they talked about course selections. Then, on order of the principal, all students were to report to one of the school guidance counsellors to discuss their future careers and the best courses to select to reach their goals.

This sent most of the students into a mad frenzy. Aptitude tests were taken by the dozen, angry fits were thrown by dispirited students, and more than one course booklet was ripped up in frustration. It seemed as if the majority of the eighth grade was clueless as to what they wanted to do with themselves after highschool.

Diego was not one of these people.

He knew exactly what he wanted to be in the future. He was determined to become a criminal lawyer. Though what _kind_ of criminal lawyer, he still hadn't made up his mind. He knew he had the choice between either a prosecutor or a defence attorney, but in his opinion, it didn't make much of a difference either way. A criminal lawyer was a criminal lawyer, and that was that.

Diego's career consultation was slated for lunchtime on a Thursday late in February. Armed with his future high school's course selection booklet, Diego arrived at the guidance counsellor's office, only to find that the office was dark and empty. Sighing, Diego tested the door to find it was unlocked. With a shrug, he walked inside and groped around in the darkness for the light switch – more by accident than on purpose, his fingers hit the switch and the lights flickered on.

The room was rather small and plain, with a white tiled floor and boring, industrial beige paint for the walls. Tucked into the back corner was a half-empty, dusty bookshelf that looked as if it were very rarely used. A wooden desk stood close to the bookshelf, with a comfortable-looking leather chair for the guidance counsellor and hard, straight-backed chairs for visitors. On top of the desk was a nameplate that said "J.P. Clark, Guidance Counsellor." Otherwise, the desk – and the rest of the room – was spotless.

Diego took a seat on one of the straight-backed chairs, wondering how long it was going to be until the guidance counsellor remembered their scheduled meeting.

Five minutes passed until the door opened, and a man who looked to be in his early forties strolled casually into the office, holding a piece of paper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He didn't even look up as he walked over to the desk and sat down in the leather chair, setting the cup of coffee down and gazing at the paper as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Diego waited for him to say something – when a whole minute passed in silence, he coughed, and the man finally looked up.

"Armando, is it?" he asked, setting the paper on the desk – from where Diego was sitting, he could see it was a list of people's names and their marks in various subjects.

Diego nodded stiffly.

The man – whom Diego assumed was the guidance counsellor, Clark – glanced back down at the list. "Any idea of what you want to do after highschool?" he asked in a monotone, pushing his glasses further up on his nose.

"A criminal lawyer," answered Diego tersely.

"Well, what are you interested in? Looking at your grades, you could take pretty much any course you wanted," Clark said in the same expressionless voice.

Diego blinked. "What?" he said, confused.

"I was wondering what sort of things you might want to study," Clark answered patiently, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Uh, law?" Diego suggested, beginning to wonder if Clark was even paying attention to him. "That's kind of what lawyers _have _to study, right?"

Clark finally looked up from his list, his brow furrowed in a frown. "A lawyer?" he repeated incredulously, having ignored the rest of what Diego had said. "You want to be a lawyer? You should have said that from the very beginning!"

Annoyed, Diego opened his mouth to point out that he _had_ said he wanted to be a lawyer from the very beginning, then thought better of it and closed his mouth again.

"Well, what kind of lawyer do you want to be?" Clark asked, looking back down at the list.

"I said that already!" Diego snapped.

"No, you didn't. A simple 'lawyer' doesn't cut it," explained Clark, his voice clearly showing that he thought Diego was a simpleton. "Do you want to study civil law, criminal law. . .?"

Diego took a deep breath. _Try to calm down, _he told himself. _It's not his fault he's stupid. Chances are that's why he's a guidance counsellor in the first place._

Slightly calmer now, Diego replied slowly and patiently, "A criminal lawyer. I would like to be a criminal lawyer."

"Well, what kind? Prosecutor, defence attorney. . .?" Clark looked at him questioningly, waiting for an answer.

"Um. . . I hadn't thought much of that, to be honest," admitted Diego.

Clark sighed and reached into his pocket, drawing out a quarter. "Well, as far as the education goes, it's basically the same thing. I think."

_You think? _Diego thought. _Gee, that's really comforting, coming from someone who's supposed to know these kinds of things._

"Even when you've passed the bar exam, I'm pretty sure you can switch from being a prosecutor to a defence attorney, or vice versa," continued Clark. "Though, for the time being, it's probably best if you pick one. You can change your mind if you want." He flipped the coin high in the air, caught it, and slapped it face-down on the backside of his hand. "Heads or tails for prosecutor?"

"Um. . . tails," Diego said, wondering if Clark often made his decisions based on coin tosses, or if he just reserved that for determining the futures of the teenagers who walked through his door.

Clark peered at the coin. "It's heads. Let's pretend you're going to be a defence attorney."

In the beginning, Diego halfheartedly tried to pay attention as Clark explained all the courses he would need to take in high school, how he'd need excellent grades, all the things he already knew. But as Clark droned on and on, Diego's mind began to wander, thinking about his new career choice.

_Diego Armando, Defence Attorney. _Diego smiled to himself as he stared blankly at Clark. _I kind of like the sound of that._

**-X-X-X-**

As time passed and as Diego began to do research on his own about defence lawyers, the idea of becoming one grew on him. Especially when people began to discourage the idea.

"You'll be buried beneath a mountain of paperwork," some people would say. Or else, "It's nothing like those crime dramas on TV, you know." And one astute person had even told him, rather bluntly, "Become a lawyer, and everyone will hate your guts."

Diego would just smile and nod in reply, never letting on that their constant discouragements and lawyer jokes were making him more and more exasperated. Relatives, teachers, even his own classmates continually told him that the idea was stupid and that he should just give up and pick another job. Their words, however, had the opposite reaction. After all, there is no better way to make someone determined to reach their goals than to discourage them.

But it wasn't for another two years, when he was sixteen-years-old, until Diego's choice to become a defence attorney was set in stone, and it was all because of his parents.

When Diego was five, his parents had gotten a divorce. He didn't remember much of it, though he did know that the divorce had been an ugly one. Ever since then, his father Leo grew angry whenever his ex-wife's name was mentioned, and his mother Bernadette feigned deafness whenever the subject of her husband was brought up.

When the courts decided with whom Diego would live, he knew exactly who he wanted to stay with – his father. Though when one is five-years-old, one is generally considered too young to be able to make a decision like that, and so it was up to the courts.

Luckily for Diego, the courts agreed with him. Somehow, Leo managed to wrangle main custodial rights, and his ex-wife had never been able to forgive him for it. Of course, Diego visited his mother and his stepfather (whom she married just a year and a half after the divorce) on weekends, but things would have been different if it had all worked out in reverse.

Then, eleven years after that unhappy divorce, something happened that changed everything for the worse.

Diego was sitting in class, pretending to pay attention to his English teacher, when the intercom crackled to life overhead. Everyone ignored it. The secretary was probably calling someone down to the phone, or asking the basketball team to meet in the lobby to go to some tournament. Whatever it was, it wouldn't concern any of them.

"Diego Armando, lobby please. Diego Armando."

The intercom switched off, and everyone glanced up at the ceiling, then to Diego, then finally to the teacher, who had continued talking through the announcement. He waved a hand toward the door, signalling that Diego could leave – a little confused, Diego stood up, waved goodbye to some of his friends, then left the classroom.

As he walked toward his locker to get his things, he wondered why he was being called down to the lobby. That normally meant he was getting picked up early, but he couldn't remember having an appointment or something else that might get him out of school.

_What does it matter? _he thought dismissively. _You get the rest of the day off. You should be happy._

After getting his books out of his locker, Diego walked down to the lobby. When he reached his destination, the only person in sight was his stepfather Peter, standing in the middle of the lobby. Diego could only see the back of him, but there was no mistaking that battered leather jacket anywhere.

Immediately, confusion filled him. If he had an appointment, Peter wouldn't be the one picking him up, and it was Wednesday, to early for him to be visiting Bernadette's.

"Peter?" Diego called, walking toward his stepfather. "Is something wrong? Why are you picking me up from school?"

Peter turned at the mention of his name. He looked a mess, with his mussed hair and clothes, and his eyes and face were red, puffy, and wet.

With a shock, Diego realized that his stepfather had been crying.

"Peter? Peter? What's wrong?" Diego demanded urgently, coming to a stop a few feet away from him and dropping his bag on the ground. "Why are you here? What's going on?"

Peter looked away, as if unable to face his stepson. He mumbled something, but Diego only caught a few words, like, "your parents," "didn't know what else to do," and "prison."

Worry began to flood through Diego, and he suddenly felt sick. Why had Peter been crying? Had something happened to his parents? But all Diego could ask was, "What about prison?"

Peter pointed toward the school doors. "Truck," he said simply, his voice trembling slightly. "I'll explain things on the way down to the prison."

"Why are we going to the prison?" Diego asked stubbornly, refusing to move.

"Just go out to the truck!" ordered Peter harshly, grabbing Diego by the arm and trying to drag him toward the doors. Diego wrestled himself free and glared at his stepfather, trying to suppress the panic and fear welling up in him.

"Tell me what's going on, and then I'll go to the damn truck!" Diego snapped back.

Almost as soon as his words left his mouth, Diego winced. Peter did not handle swearing well. Even as mild a word as "hell" would set Peter off – so when all Peter did was pick up Diego's bag and walk out of the front doors, he knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Even though he felt like running as far away as he could, Diego followed his stepfather out into the parking lot.

Peter's pickup truck was sitting in the far back corner of the parking lot, the keys still in the ignition, the doors unlocked – a risky practice in the city of Los Angeles, especially outside of a high school where plenty of students would think it would be funny to make off with a vehicle. Diego was surprised no one had stolen the truck yet – then again, it was huge, dirty, and didn't smell great despite the air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror, so perhaps it shouldn't have been that big of a surprise.

Peter climbed into the driver's seat and tossed Diego's bag into the back as his stepson clambered into the passenger's side. As soon as Diego's door was closed, Peter backed out of the parking space and made his way out on the street, expertly weaving through the busy traffic.

"So, what's up? Why are you dragging me out of school so early, and why are we going to a prison of all places?" Diego asked curiously, buckling his seatbelt. "Not that I'm complaining about getting out of school, but–"

"It's Bernadette," Peter said shortly.

Diego stopped mid sentence, his mouth still open as his brain tried to think of a reason why his mother would prompt Peter to drag him out of school. He couldn't think of one.

"What about Mom?" asked Diego, wondering if he wanted to know the answer.

"They found her," replied Peter, his steely gray eyes focussed on the road in front of him. It sounded as if he was trying hard not to cry again. "I mean, the police found her."

Diego blinked, completely caught off-guard by this piece of news. "Mom was missing?"

Peter whipped around in his seat to stare at his stepson. The truck shot through a red light and barely avoided a small car that was trying to turn left. Ignoring the sudden honking that exploded all around them, Peter asked incredulously, "You didn't know?"

"Know what?" he replied, completely lost.

Peter returned his attention to the street and the traffic. "She's been missing," he said bluntly. "Since Sunday."

"What?" Diego yelped. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I am." Peter glared out the windshield for a moment, as if thinking. After a moment's pause, he added, "I called to tell you, but you weren't home. Your father said he would pass on the message."

Diego sat slumped in his seat, half-finished thoughts whirling through his mind. He couldn't believe it. He _refused _to believe it. People disappeared all the time in the city of Los Angeles, but they were faceless strangers, people whom he'd never met and would never meet, and he never thought that something like this would ever happen to him.

And yet, it had.

Then, suddenly, something that Peter had just said to him a moment ago popped into his scrambling mind.

_They found her_.

Desperately, Diego clutched onto those three little words, his only hope for a happy ending to all of this.

"But they found her, right?" Diego asked sharply, half-afraid of the answer but wanting to know it regardless. "It's all okay."

Then Diego looked at Peter's hands clutching the steering wheel, his knuckles white, and knew that it wasn't okay.

"I'm sorry," Peter whispered, his words almost lost amongst the sound of the truck's engine.

Diego broke.

He slumped in his seat, burying his face in his hands. His hope, his denial that this was happening, and his heart, all shattered by two simple words. He tried to lie to himself, to say that he'd misheard his stepfather, that Peter had really said, "Yes, Diego, it's all okay."

He'd have given anything to hear those words.

But it seemed as if Peter wasn't done. "We're going down to the prison to visit your father," he continued, in a voice suddenly full of hate. "He's been charged with your mother's murder."

Diego continued to sit in his seat. Shock numbed him all over. He could not think, he could not feel. Distantly, it seemed, he was aware that he felt like throwing up, that his eyes were burning. And yet, despite everything, no tears sprang forth. He was too upset to cry.

All he could do was sit there as he absorbed the worst news of his life.


	3. The Coffee Maker

**princessphilomena: Yay, you're alive! 8D I'm a quote person too. They're fun. :) And I fixed those mistakes you pointed out (stupid typos).**

**Stefan-sama: Yeah, I think the coin toss fits with Diego too, even though it's kind of a random way to choose your career. But I'm glad that someone agrees with me. XD**

**As you can (hopefully) tell by the name of this chapter, it includes. . . coffee~ Which may seem kind of random considering he just found out that his mother was killed and his dad is in prison. Then again, this _is_ Diego we're talking about. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**The Coffee Maker**

"_One woe doth tread upon another's heel,_

_So fast they follow." -William Shakespeare_

**-X-X-X-**

Diego sat alone in one of the visitors room at the detention centre, waiting for one of the prison guards to fetch "the suspect." Peter had disappeared almost as soon as they entered the building, and he wasn't sure where his stepfather had gone. Frankly, he didn't care.

He was still recovering from the initial shock of discovering that his mother was dead and his father had been arrested for murder. In a way, Diego doubted that this was even happening – it all felt like some surreal, poorly-written crime novel to him. His mind kept coming up with excuses like, "that woman they found can't be Mom – this is all just a big misunderstanding," and the ever-classic, "this is just a dream."

The latter scenario was so easy to test. All he had to do was pinch himself on the arm as hard as possible, and then either he'd wake up, or he wouldn't.

Three times, he almost did it.

Three times, he pulled his hand away, afraid that he wouldn't wake up.

A few minutes later, the sound of a door being opened made Diego look up. On the opposite side of the glass panel that divided the room in half were two men, one wearing a police officer's uniform, the other wearing a business suit. After closing the door, the guard leaned against a stretch of wall next to the door and seemed to ignore the other man, who quietly shuffled to a seat and sat down, never once breaking eye contact with his visitor.

Diego swallowed as he gazed at his father. They were almost like mirror images of each other – tall, with messy brown hair, brown eyes, and (at the moment) the same expression of utter defeat written on their faces. Despite the glass panel between them, Diego could already smell the faintest hint of coffee wafting from his father's direction.

The smell involuntarily made him picture a scene earlier that morning, before the two of them left the apartment for the day. Leo stood at the counter, patiently waiting for his ancient coffee maker to produce a pot of coffee, while Diego crammed the last of his textbooks into his backpack.

"You got everything?" Leo asked, drumming his fingers on the counter top.

"Yes, Dad," Diego replied automatically. With a gargantuan effort, he managed to zip the bag completely closed. A triumphant grin on his face, he looked up at his father. "How long have you been waiting for the coffee maker to finish, anyway?" he asked, as he often did in the mornings.

"A while," Leo said amiably, just as he always did.

"Why don't you just get a new one? You've had it since the divorce, it's got a big crack in it, and it hardly even works," Diego pointed out, shouldering his backpack.

"I've had it since _before_ the divorce," Leo corrected him, purposefully ignoring everything else that his son had said. "The one thing I wanted in the settlement was this coffee maker – besides main custody rights, of course. I swear, this thing makes the best coffee I've ever tasted in my life."

Diego just shook his head. "I've gotta go," he said, heading for the door.

"Bye, Diego."

"Bye, Dad."

And now, just a few hours later, they were sitting in the detention centre, with Leo arrested for murder.

_Everything started so normally today. . . how did it all come to this? _Diego wondered.

His father saved him from dwelling on the question. "Hey, son," Leo said softly.

Diego said nothing. He didn't want to waste time on the usual "hellos" and "how are you doings" – he wanted answers, and yet he didn't want to talk to his father at all. It was difficult to tell which he wanted more.

Leo sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Listen, I know that this is a shock for you," he said quietly. "You probably don't want to talk to me, and to be honest, I don't blame you." A look of hurt flickered across his face before reverting back to its previous, worn-down expression. "But please, Diego, say something. I don't care what it is. Just talk to me. Please."

"Did you do it?"

The words came out of Diego's mouth before he could stop himself, but he didn't regret saying them. At the moment, it was all he wanted to ask, all he wanted to know – whether or not his father really was a murderer.

Leo's expression didn't change as he asked smoothly, "What do you think?"

Diego hadn't been expecting that reply. He bit his lip, gazing at his father, searching his face for a hint, but he found none. After a moment, he said quietly, "I. . . I don't know. I'm sorry, Dad."

And the worst part was, he really _didn't_ know. It was impossible for him to come to a decision – he instinctively didn't want to think of his father as a killer, but there must have been a reason why the police had arrested him. At the moment, he was in no position to come to his own conclusion.

Leo shook his head. "It's okay, son," he said, though there wasn't much conviction in his voice. "I don't blame you for being unsure about all of this."

"But did you do it?" Diego pressed, his voice beginning to tremble. Now that he'd asked the question, he _needed_ to know the answer. "You. . . You didn't kill Mom, did you?"

Leo ran his fingers through his hair again, as if thinking about his answer. This did not help Diego's hope that his father wasn't a killer after all. After a moment, he said, "Kill my ex-wife? Sure, we haven't gotten along well since the divorce, but enough so that this all ended in murder? No."

Diego opened his mouth to reply, but there was a knock on the door on his side. Barely a second later, the door opened and one of the guards stuck his head into the room.

"Diego Armando?" he asked. Diego turned around in his seat, and the guard added unapologetically, "Sorry to interrupt, but the detectives want to ask you a couple of questions. It won't take long."

Diego quickly turned back to face his father. "Do you know when your first court appearance is?" he asked. "Because I want to go, and–"

"No."

Leo's voice was quiet yet firm and full of authority.

"What do you mean, 'no?'" demanded Diego, surprised and angry at his father's reaction.

"Because I don't want you to see your father on trial for your mother's death," Leo replied, his voice suddenly harsh. "So before you go, promise me this – you will _not_ go to _any_ of my court appearances, which includes the sentencing. All right?"

"Dad–"

"Promise me," Leo said firmly.

"Mr. Armando?" the guard said tentatively. "The detectives–"

Diego let out a deep breath, closing his eyes. A moment later, he nodded in agreement to his father and, without another word, followed the guard out the door to the questioning room.

The questioning took about an hour. As Diego expected, it was nothing like in the crime dramas on TV, with the dark room, the two detectives playing good-cop-bad-cop, or the bright light being shined in your face. The detective asking the questions was old and needed a shave, and sat across the table from Diego and Peter, who had reappeared just in time for the questioning to begin. The detective took notes of the questions and responses, and on the table between them sat a tape recorder to catch anything that he may have missed.

The questions he was asked were rudimentary – where were you at whatever time, what were you doing, can anyone verify that, etc. Slowly, though, the questions shifted onto the topic of Leo and Bernadette.

"How would you describe the relationship between the victim and the suspect?" asked the detective, rubbing his chin as he looked down at his notes.

His parents were the last thing on earth Diego wanted to talk about (especially when they were referred to as only "the victim" and "the suspect"), but he knew he had to say something. "Well, they are – _were_ – divorced," he answered after a pause.

"Yes, but were they on good terms, bad terms. . .?" the detective asked, his pencil poised and ready to write.

"Listen, Detective, I don't think you need to be asking him questions you already know the answer to," Peter said swiftly, sensing Diego's discomfort. "There's no point."

"Yes, but I want _his_ perspective on the case," the detective argued.

"Diego's been through a lot over the past hour and a half or so. I really don't think he wants to talk about his parents," Peter replied heatedly. "Now can we move on?"

Rolling his eyes, the detective turned back to Diego and asked, "So, where was your father on Sunday night?"

Diego struggled to remember what Sunday night had been like, and what his father had done. "He was home for most of it," he said slowly, thinking aloud. "I know because I was studying in the kitchen for a test and he was in the living room watching TV. And then at about nine-thirty, he said he was going for a walk and left."

The detective's eyes widened and he scribbled something down on his notebook. "What time did he return?" he asked, still writing feverishly.

The answer to this question was easy. "I don't know," Diego replied with a shrug. "I went to bed before he got back."

"And what time did you go to bed?" asked the detective.

"Ten o'clock."

The detective looked at him skeptically. "A sixteen-year-old boy going to bed at ten o'clock? Aren't you teenagers supposed to be nocturnal or something?"

Diego shrugged. "I was exhausted and I had a big test the next day."

The detective shrugged and jotted another note down, then said, "And your father never mentioned the fact that your mother was missing to you?"

"No. I don't think he knew," Diego said loyally.

"What you think he knew or didn't know isn't relevant to the question I asked," the detective snapped as he wrote.

Meanwhile, Peter mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?" asked the detective curiously

"I said, 'That's funny,'" Peter said, though it seemed as if he was speaking more to himself than he was to the detective. "Because I called Diego late on Monday night to tell him that Bernadette was missing, but Leo picked up. He said he was asleep but he'd tell him in the morning."

"That is strange," mused the detective, making another note on his notebook. "Did you tell this to the detective questioning you?"

"Yes, I did," Peter replied. "But enough about that. Let's get back to Diego's questioning."

**-X-X-X-**

Diego temporarily moved into Peter's apartment until a more permanent solution could be found. It was dingy and looked like a complete pigsty compared to his and Leo's neat, tidy place, but he didn't really care. In fact, there wasn't much that he really cared about.

Diego drifted through the next few weeks in what felt to him like a dreamlike state. It felt almost like he was on auto-pilot, being guided through the days by some unknown force. He especially noticed it when he returned to school the next week as he automatically made his way through his classes, copying notes and doing homework without even noticing what he was doing.

It seemed that everyone at school had heard about the case. His friends seemed torn between trying to comfort him or ignoring him. They reached a happy medium by acting as if nothing had happened, though they seemed much more subdued when he was in their presence. When he walked the halls, he barely registered the people whispering and pointing in his wake.

He ignored them. He had more important things to worry about.

Like his mother and his father.

Considering his close connection to the case, he knew so little about it. He didn't know where his mother had been found, how she'd died, or why they thought it was Leo who had killed her. Not that he'd ever asked anyone. He knew that the detectives would say that it could "jeopardize the investigation" or some other nonsense, and he never asked his father about it on his weekly trips to the detention centre. They talked about safe things – school and the weather, mostly – but never about the case. Never.

A few weeks after his arrest, Leo made his first appearance in court. True to his father's wishes, Diego didn't sneak out of school to attend. He would have if it hadn't been for that promise he'd made – he'd been raised to be a man of his word, as his father often said – and it nearly killed him as he sat in class, wondering what was happening in the courthouse on the other side of the city.

However, he had never promised that he wouldn't do everything in his power to learn what was going on in his father's trial.

Early the next morning, Diego snuck out and fetched the mail. There were a couple of letters and a rolled up newspaper – carelessly tossing the letters onto the kitchen table amidst a scattered collection of beer cans, Diego slipped into his room and closed the door with the newspaper clutched in his hand.

Sitting on his bed, Diego unfurled the newspaper and began to read. The combination of little sleep and tiny print soon made his head and eyes hurt, but he read on, desperate to find an article covering Leo's trial.

After half an hour of sifting through the various sections of the paper, he finally found it – "Man Accused of Killing Ex Pleads Not Guilty." Anxiously, he leaned forward, his head pounding, and read:

_Yesterday, Leo Armando pleaded not guilty to first degree murder in his first appearance in court._

_Armando allegedly stabbed his ex-wife, Bernadette Walker, to death and dumped her body in a local park. According to police there is significant evidence that Armando was involved in his ex's death, though officials declined further comment._

_Armando's next court appearance will be in two weeks time._

Three paragraphs.

A mere three paragraphs.

Angrily, Diego threw the newspaper aside. Rather than hitting the wall as he'd intended, it merely fluttered to the floor and lay face-up, the headline of the article glaring up at him, mocking him.

_I knew I shouldn't have looked for an article, _he thought, feeling a sudden surge of disgust and sorrow. _What were you thinking? That it would help if you learned how Mom was killed? That the article would say that Dad looks like he's doing well so far? God, I hate whole thing._

He got off the bed and scooped up the newspaper, prepared to throw it out, but then he hesitated. Peter would wonder where the newspaper was when he woke up (which probably wouldn't be for a long time, judging by the way he'd drunkenly staggered into the apartment late last night), and besides, this was going to be his only chance to build up a picture of what the trial looked like, even if it was probably the vaguest and least helpful article he'd ever read in his life.

Diego went out to the kitchen and rummaged around in the drawers, looking for a pair of scissors. At last, he found a pair hiding on the counter beneath more beer cans and returned to his bedroom. Quickly (and very messily) he cut the article out of the newspaper and slipped it into an old manilla folder he'd found in his search for the scissors.

Before Diego closed the folder, he glanced at the article, his eyes drooping with tiredness. He knew that it was going to hurt him, to only read about his father's trial and not be there in person to watch and support him, but if this was the only way he could learn about the details of the case, then that's what he had to do.

With a yawn, he closed the folder and went back to sleep.

**-X-X-X-**

Two days later, Diego visited his father at the detention centre again. Rather than their usual topics of school and weather, they had something new to discuss – apparently, Leo had finally found a permanent place for his son to live.

"Guess what?" he asked as soon as he'd sat down in his usual chair.

Diego leaned forward, expecting his father to tell him what had happened in court the other day.

"Your uncle Craig came back from some European business trip he's been on the past month," Leo explained, attempting a rare smile.

Suddenly, he was a lot less interested in the conversation. "Craig?" he repeated tentatively, picturing the balding businessman in his mind. "Mom's brother?"

"That's the one," Leo confirmed with a nod. "Well, anyway, as soon as his plane touched down in LA, he came down to the detention centre and volunteered to take you in."

Diego wasn't sure how to feel about this. Craig was one of this stiff, prim-and-proper uncles you saw maybe once or twice a year, the kind you dreaded having to go visit. He barely knew the man and didn't particularly care for him, but at least there wouldn't be constant reminders of his mother like at Peter's apartment.

Apparently, Leo sensed his son's reluctance, because he gave him a sympathetic look. "Listen, I know you don't know your uncle very well, but he's a good guy. Not a lot of men would offer to take in their sixteen-year-old nephews that they barely know."

_Or visit their ex-brother-in-law in jail, _Diego thought, but didn't say aloud.

"How's the apartment cleaning going, anyway?" asked Leo, quickly changing the topic.

After his father's arrest, Diego had taken most of his things out of their old apartment, but they'd continued to rent it in the vain hope that Leo would be released. Now, however, there was no denying that nothing of the sort would happen, and so they had agreed to give up the apartment after cleaning it out of anything that might be valuable/important. There was only one item left that needed to be dealt with – Leo's ancient coffee maker.

Diego still wasn't entirely sure what to do with it. It was basically useless, but throwing it out without asking felt. . . wrong, almost. He half-hoped his father could keep it in his cell, knowing it would be a comfort to him, but he also had a feeling that inmates weren't allowed to have luxuries like coffee makers.

Now, however, was his chance to find out. "Can you keep your coffee maker here with you?" Diego asked hopefully.

Leo shook his head mournfully. "I asked already, the first day I came here. I'm not allowed. Which sucks, because the prison coffee is terrible."

Diego saw by the expression on his face that his father was dead serious.

"Well, what do you want me to do with it?" he asked.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting for an answer, but it certainly wasn't what Leo said next. "You take it."

Diego sat there for a moment in silence, wondering why on earth his father would want him to take a coffee maker when he didn't even drink coffee. "You want _me_ to take it?" he said uncertainly.

Leo nodded and smiled in confirmation. "Yes, that's what I said. Who knows? Maybe you'll make some, and you'll become addicted like your dad."

"Oh. Okay. Um, thanks, Dad," Diego said, still a little stunned.

The guard tapped his watch. "Sorry, fellas, but visiting hours are over," he informed them. "Time to go, Mr. Armando."

Leo nodded and stood up. "Craig will be dropping by Peter's place tomorrow to pick you and your stuff up," he said. "And remember to treat that coffee maker well."

Diego nodded and watched as his father was escorted from the visitors room. After a couple of seconds, he finally stood up from his chair and left, slamming the door behind him as hard as he could.


	4. Hiding Evidence

**princessphilomena: Yes, we will indeed find out if Leo is guilty or not. Perhaps even in this chapter. . .? -cue ominous music- I made both corrections – I reread the second sentence you pointed out and you're right about it seeming a bit confusing. Thank you, as always. :)**

**Stefan-Sama: Haha, no worries. :) I'm curious as to what your theory is, and whether or not you're right, but we'll see in due time, I suppose. . .**

**I'm so sorry I took so long to get this out. :( I feel that it's worth the wait, though. I'm certainly pleased with how it turned out, but I wish it hadn't taken me almost a month to write the stupid thing. (You can tell just how much **_**fun **_**I had trying to write this, can't you? XD) Hopefully things will move more quickly from here on out, and I'll be able to get a couple more chapters in before school starts next month.**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**Hiding Evidence**

"_Guilt is regret for what we've done_

_Regret is guilt for what we didn't do." -Unknown_

**-X-X-X-**

Diego walked into Peter's apartment an hour later, carrying his father's coffee maker under his arm. Peter was seated on the couch, eating out of a bowl of chips in his lap as he watched some sort of home improvement show – something that Peter would normally avoid watching.

Quietly, Diego set the coffee maker down on the kitchen table and approached his stepfather. Peter was gazing blankly at the screen as he automatically shovelled chips into his mouth, seeming to be so absorbed in his own thoughts that he hadn't realized what was on TV, no more than he had noticed Diego's presence.

"Peter?" he said tentatively, waving a hand in front of his stepfather's face.

Peter gave a small jerk as he was snapped out of his reverie. First he glanced at Diego, then at the screen, grimaced, and turned off the TV. "Sorry, I was thinking about things," he said through a mouthful of chips. "What's up?"

"I just got back from the detention centre," Diego explained. "Dad says–"

Peter's face suddenly broke into a scowl, making him draw up short. Diego wasn't sure what he had done to offend him, but whatever it was, it must have been bad if Peter was scowling like that at him.

"What does _he_ say, besides the usual lies?" growled Peter contemptuously.

The way Peter had emphasized "he" did not make Diego feel comfortable. Of course, he'd always thought that Peter didn't believe that Leo was innocent, but it was one thing to think it, and quite another to hear Peter speak in such a hateful voice about his father.

_Not that I can really blame him, _Diego thought. _Not even I'm sure–_

Diego banished the thought from his head before it could complete itself. He took a few slow, deep breaths in an effort to calm himself down, trying to ignore the way his throat had suddenly begun to burn. Those thoughts were off-limits – he would not think them if he could help it.

"Dad says that I'm going to be moving in with one of my uncles tomorrow," Diego finished in a surprisingly steady voice. "He'll be by in the afternoon to pick me up."

Peter's scowl deepened as he reached a hand into the bowl of chips. "Which uncle?" he demanded sharply, his gaze fixed intently on Diego's face.

"Craig," replied Diego, unnerved by his stepfather's tone and expression.

Apparently satisfied with the answer, Peter threw a handful of chips into his mouth. Diego could practically hear his stepfather thinking contemptuously, _At least it's not one of _his_ brothers._

He waited for a real reply as Peter chewed, then swallowed his chips. When, still silent, he reached in for another handful, Diego finally said, in a very awkward voice, "Well, um, thanks for letting me stay here for the last couple of weeks. I guess."

"No problem," grunted Peter.

Diego counted silently to ten. When Peter said nothing more, he grabbed the coffee maker and withdrew to his room to pack.

Within fifteen minutes, everything he owned had been packed into bags, excluding the coffee maker that now sat on his bedside table, looking just as ancient and forlorn as ever. Diego sat on the edge of his bed, his luggage sitting at his feet, as he went through a mental checklist of things he needed to pack. Although he would never admit it, this was more so that he could distract himself from the thoughts had cropped up during his conversation with Peter, and less to make sure that he had actually remembered to pack everything he needed.

_. . . toothbrush, jacket, socks, folder. . . Wait, did I remember to pack the folder? _Diego wondered. He tried to remember if he had, but as far as he knew, he hadn't even come across it when he had been looking through his bedroom for his belongings.

To double-check, Diego quickly went through his bags again, only to find that he had indeed forgotten to pack it. Annoyed, he tried to remember where he'd put the folder, but he drew a complete blank.

_Great, _he thought. _Absolutely fantastic._

Diego began to search through his room from top to bottom, from his dresser to the closet, and even beneath the bed, but there was no sign of it anywhere. As he grew increasingly frustrated, the thought occurred to him, _It's a measly three paragraphs, definitely not worth all of this effort. If you need it so badly, you can just find an edition of that same newspaper and cut it out of that._

Even though it was a smart idea, Diego continued to search. There was no guarantee he could find another copy of the newspaper, and if he was going to figure out what was happening in his father's trial, he would need all the help he could get. Even a mere three paragraphs' worth of help.

Finally, out of pure desperation, Diego checked beneath his pillow. He caught sight of the corner of something, and raised the pillow higher. Sure enough, there sat the folder, looking somewhat crumpled but otherwise in good condition.

However, in the act of raising the pillow, Diego had sent something white and rectangular sliding out of the pillowcase. Distracted, he watched as it fell through the gap between his bed and the wall, vanishing from sight.

Diego stared blankly at the spot where it had disappeared, his brain whirring as he wondered what it had been, and why it had been in his pillowcase.

_It looked like a piece of paper, _he decided, brow furrowed in contemplation. _Did someone hide it in there? Because I don't remember ever putting a piece of paper in my pillowcase. . ._

Diego set the folder next to his father's coffee maker, then got down on his hands and knees for the second time that night, peering beneath his bed. It was dark, but he could make out the shapes of boxes, books, CDs, and other forgotten junk that had been shoved underneath the bed. There was no sign of the object.

Diego squirmed his way beneath the bed, shoving anything in his path off to the side, blindly groping around for the object that had fallen out of his pillowcase. After a moment, his fingers brushed something that felt like paper, and he quickly took hold of it, dragging himself and the paper-like object out from beneath the bed.

The white object was actually a small envelope, which was crumpled and had been unceremoniously ripped open by its recipient. Diego stood up, perplexed, and turned around the envelope so as to see who it had been addressed to. When he saw the name and the writing, he froze.

The addressee was Bernadette Walker.

And the neat, precise cursive was Leo Armando's.

Before he knew what was doing, Diego was sliding the folded-up letter out of the envelope. He held his breath as his trembling fingers attempted to unfold the letter. Twice, he fumbled and the letter dropped to the floor. On the third try, he succeeded in opening the first flap, which showed only the date the letter had been written.

April 15, 2001.

Two weeks before Bernadette had been murdered.

Diego's vision suddenly went white as the room began to spin. He stumbled backward and collapsed onto the bed with a screech of bedsprings, clutching the letter and envelope so tightly in his hands that his fingers began to cramp.

He was dimly aware that his heart was somewhere in his throat, beating painfully and at a dangerous rate. In those heartbeats, he could only hear, over and over, _April 15. April 15. April 15._

That one date forced its way into his mind, forcing all other thoughts out. It shattered his hope that his father was innocent, it strengthened his doubts that the police were right. It swelled until it was all he could think, all he could see, all he could hear, all he could _feel_. April 15 felt like defeat and despair and betrayal.

_This is the end._

The words appeared in his head as cold, concrete fact, just another part of the swirling chaos that was taking place inside his own head.

"This is the end," Diego echoed, barely knowing that he had said the words aloud, but believing them with every fibre of his being.

And it _was_ the end. If Leo Armando, who had never once contacted Bernadette since their divorce, had written a letter to her just two weeks before she had been killed, this was decisive enough evidence to prove that he had indeed lured and killed her. If the police had found it–

_They haven't found it._

Again, the words appeared as fact. Again, Diego accepted it without question.

_If the police had found it, it would not be here in your hands right now. It would have already been submitted as evidence to court. It would have completely destroyed your father's case, and his fate would have already been sealed._

Diego believed this too. It made sense. Even in his odd, shocked state, he knew that.

_So the police have no idea that this letter exists._

_Which begs the question, Diego: What will you do with it?_

Diego blinked. It seemed to help, clearing his mind a little so that he could actually think. That one clear-thinking island in a sea of confusion was stymied by this question. He knew that the "right" answer would be to hand the letter over to the police and let them deal with it. Even if it meant that his father was sentenced to life in prison, perhaps even to death, because of him.

The very thought made Diego's blood run cold. _No, _he thought as the clarity in his mind began to spread. _Dad will _not_ die because of me._

The voice, or whatever it was, did not reply. As Diego slowly began to calm down, another problem occurred to him: Purposefully withholding evidence from an investigation was a crime itself. This, coupled with the fact that the letter would be key in getting Bernadette's killer locked up, showed that turning the letter over to the authorities was obviously the better choice.

But he couldn't destroy his own father's life.

Diego reviewed his options. If he chose to give the letter to the police, to seek justice for his mother, would he be able to live with himself afterward, knowing he'd driven the final nail into his father's coffin? But if he took his father's side and hid the letter from the police, would he be able to fulfill his dream and become a lawyer, whose job was to ensure that justice prevailed?

In the end, he had only two real choices: Betray his mother, or betray his father.

Diego could feel his eyes burning with tears. It was all too much, all too soon – his mother's death, his father's arrest, and now the letter and the decision he had to make.

Silently, he began to cry.

He sat on his bed for half an hour, the tears streaming quietly down his face, holding the letter in one hand, and the envelope in the other. He knew that crying was for wimps. He knew that if anyone from school knew, they would mock him for the rest of his life. To him, it didn't matter. All that mattered to him now was a letter, the fate of the man who had written it, and the memory of the woman who had died because of it.

Finally, when the tears ceased to flow, Diego wiped his eyes and glanced at the letter, which was still open to show only the date.

_I should read it, _he thought numbly.

He hesitated for a moment, considering it, knowing he should, but not knowing if he could.

Then he crammed the letter back into the envelope and hid it in the manilla folder along with the article.

_I need more time to think, _he decided shakily. _For now, I'll hide it, and I'll think about it. And then I'll chose who I'll betray._

**-X-X-X-**

Diego slept very badly that night. The folder seemed to attract his gaze like a dead body, and he constantly watched it through increasingly tired eyes. Knowing the secret it held. Afraid of it. Trying to forget it. Failing to forget it.

Every time he drifted off to sleep, the date on the letter filled his dreams. Every time, without fail, he saw the words _April 15 _in huge, terrible letters. And then he would wake up with a jolt, to find himself staring directly at the folder again.

When he went to school the next day, hollow-eyed and exhausted, he couldn't forget the letter, no matter how hard he tried. It seemed as if it was lodged in his memory, unwilling to let go, determined to haunt his every waking moment.

This became apparent during history, when the teacher asked the class, "On what day was Pearl Harbour bombed by the Japanese? Does anyone know?

Everyone seemed to shrink in their seats, unwilling to answer the question.

The teacher scanned the class with a mix of exasperation and resignation on her face. Finally, she said with an encouraging smile, "Diego? Do you know?"

This was, the class felt, a rather pointless question. Diego knew the answer to almost any question that the teacher asked, and was renowned for showing off his knowledge whenever possible.

"April 15."

He blurted it out instinctively, the only date that he was thinking of. As soon as he realized what he'd said, his face flushed bright red.

The teacher looked somewhat surprised and disappointed, before replacing her expression with one of complete, polite blankness. "Um, sorry Diego, but that's not even close," she said monotonously.

Everyone turned in their seats and gaped at Diego, completely agog at the fact that he, of all people, had answered a question wrong.

Diego sank into his seat and did not speak to anyone for the rest of the day.

After school was over, Diego let himself into Peter's empty apartment. Dumping his book bag near the door, he headed for the couch and collapsed onto it with the intention of a long sleep, hopefully with more success than last night. Finally succumbing to exhaustion, he managed to doze off, but just a few minutes later, the sound of a ringing doorbell sliced through his sleep, waking him up yet again.

Already cross from lack of sleep, Diego was furious that Peter would chose now of all times to forget to bring his key out with him. Diego stomped to the door and wrenched it open, prepared to yell at his stepfather for interrupting his nap, but when he saw his short, balding uncle Craig framed in the doorway, he merely stood there with his mouth hanging open.

"Hello, Diego," Craig said dryly, looking straight into his nephew's eyes. He looked very much the stereotypical businessman, complete with an immaculate suit and tie, carrying a briefcase with one hand. "I trust that you're packed?"

Only then did Diego remember that today was the day he would be moving into Craig's house.

"It's rude to gape," Craig commented, raising a bushy eyebrow at him.

Diego closed his mouth instantly. There was something about Craig, whether it be his tone of voice or his facial expression, that made you do immediately what he asked or implied.

"We'd better get your things," Craig added, a faint trace of exasperation in his voice now.

Diego nodded and said meekly, "Right. Sorry. I'll go get them."

Ten minutes later, all of Diego's bags had been packed into Craig's very fancy, very clean, very expensive-looking car, which looked so ridiculous next to the rickety apartment building that, if Diego had been in his right mind, he would have laughed. As it was, he could barely manage a weak grin. Craig didn't seem to find the picture funny at all. Then again, Diego remembered, his uncle didn't have much in the way of a sense of humour.

"Is that everything?" Craig asked, hand on the trunk as he prepared to close it.

"There's something else, but I'll carry it with me in the car," Diego explained. "I'll be back in a second."

Before Craig could object, he had already run into the apartment building and was halfway up the stairs. When he reached Peter's apartment, he let himself in with his spare key – he would leave it on the kitchen table when he left – and headed into his room.

Sitting on the bedside table was the coffee maker and the folder. Diego grabbed the folder and turned to leave again, but he hesitated, glancing at the cracked coffee maker.

Originally, he had wanted to bring it along with him, but the discovery of the letter had changed his opinion on a matter of things. Did he want to take this coffee maker with him, just another reminder of his father and the crime he'd committed?

Eventually, Diego picked up the coffee maker and left his bedroom. It held memories of his father, but it also held memories of a happier time, and these were the memories he needed and had to keep.

When Diego emerged from the apartment building, he saw that Craig was already in the car, waiting for him. He got into the passenger's seat and as he buckled his seatbelt, Craig started up the car and pulled out of his parking space.

As Craig manoeuvred through the late afternoon traffic, neither of them spoke, Craig intent upon his driving, Diego staring moodily out of the window, trying to ignore the folder, but frequently glancing down at it, worried that the letter might fall out and catch Craig's attention.

During a particularly long red light, Craig happened to glance at the two objects in Diego's lap. His brow was furrowed for a moment, as if thinking hard about something – Diego, in a moment of blind panic, thought that a corner of the envelope must be sticking out of the folder and glanced down – however, the envelope remained hidden from view.

Craig's eyes suddenly lit up in understanding. "That's your father's old coffee maker, isn't it?" he asked.

The mention of Leo made Diego's throat tighten painfully. Rather than reply aloud, he nodded and gazed determinedly out the window, away from his uncle.

Craig's voice sounded almost absentminded as he added, "I gave that to him and Bernadette as a wedding present. I can't believe he kept it after all this time. . ."

Craig's voice slowly tailed away, and neither of them spoke for the rest of the drive. Diego was glad for this. If the conversation had continued, he didn't trust himself not cry.

**-X-X-X-**

Diego settled into life with his uncle surprisingly well. Craig's house was much larger than Peter's cramped apartment and he worked fairly long hours, so it was easy to avoid each other. It also helped that Craig didn't bother Diego half as much as he had expected, and he returned the favour, meaning that they lived a very quiet existence.

The letter remained in the manilla folder, which now rested on Diego's dresser with the coffee maker. He hadn't taken it out since he'd hidden it, nor had he come to a decision as to what to do with it. Deep down, he knew that he was taking the easy way out, that with each passing day, the chance that he would do something with the letter whittled away, but he continued to waver over a decision.

The letter was not the only thing in the folder. For the next two months, Diego developed a ritual the morning after his father's court appearances. He would sneak out early as the papers were being delivered and bring it into the house. He would then spend the next hour scanning the headlines and the stories, trying to find any that were related to his father's trial.

They were not very satisfactory articles, when he could find them. The editors seemed to stick the articles in as an afterthought to all of the coverage on whatever scandals and stories gripped the nation that day. Diego grew increasingly frustrated with these half-satisfactory tidbits of information, but he cut out the articles anyway and placed them in the folder with all the rest.

When a small collection had built up inside the folder, Diego took to reading and rereading the articles, and he came to realize why his father had banned him from watching the trial. Leo must have sensed that things weren't going to end well for him, and the scant coverage on the case proved his point.

According to the articles, Leo had no alibi for the time of the murder. There was proof that Peter had indeed called the night after Bernadette disappeared, but no recording of the conversation itself. Peter insisted that they had discussed Bernadette's disappearance, and that he asked Leo to tell Diego about it. Leo said that Peter had been drunk at the time and had been yelling incoherently into the phone, to the point where Leo had finally hung up on him. Judging by the way the article spoke of Leo's version of events, Diego assumed that Peter was the one who both the writer and the courts believed to be true.

The one thing that was in Leo's favour was the fact that the murder weapon hadn't been found. That wasn't enough to land him a "not guilty," however.

Diego wasn't sure how to feel about that, but it at least gave him an excuse with which to justify his not turning the letter over to the police. The prosecution didn't need it for their case – they would prove Leo guilty without the letter, Bernadette would get the justice she deserved, and no one ever needed to know that Diego had hidden evidence.

But if that was the case, why did he still feel some lingering doubt?

* * *

**Just a couple more notes:**

**If anyone is going to argue that concealing evidence is von Karma's shtick and something Diego would never do, I'd like to point out that Diego is sixteen at this point. He's not the coffee-chugging, smug lawyer we've come to know and love. He's a teenager whose father's in jail for murdering his mother, and he just discovered evidence that the man who raised him did kill her after all. I think that pretty much says it all, don't you?**

**I'm going to be wrapping up this part of the story within the next three or four chapters, I think. I'm behind schedule as far as the plot goes (a good chunk of the next chapter was supposed to be in this one, but I had to cut it out), so I need to get back on track. :)**

**That's it for now. Thanks for reading, as always.**


	5. Quest For Truth

**Finally, it's finished. :) You have no idea how infuriating it is to have your typing speed halved due to finger injuries. (And hopefully, you lot probably never will. XD)**

**Other than that, no real comments. Enjoy. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**Quest For Truth**

"_The terrible thing about the quest for truth is that you will find it."-Remy de Gourmont_

**-X-X-X-**

One afternoon in late July, Diego was reading through his newspaper articles when there was a knock on his bedroom door. Gently, Diego set the articles and the folder aside and got up to answer the door. When he opened it however, the hallway was empty except for a bulletin board and a box of tacks. Pinned to the bulletin board was a note: "For the articles."

Diego stared at the note, dumbfounded. _For the articles? _he could anyone know about them? They'd been hidden in his room for a long time. . .

Then he remembered that the newspaper he took the articles from was also read by his uncle. _Craig must have been reading the newspaper all this time, wondering why there would be random articles cut out, and figured it out, _he decided, feeling like smacking himself on the forehead.

Quickly, Diego grabbed the bulletin board and the box of tacks, then withdrew to his room. He began to meticulously pin the articles to the board, taking great care that none of them overlapped. When all of the articles had been pinned up, he hung the bulletin board on the wall and admired his handiwork.

Only half of the bulletin board's space was covered, perhaps less. But as Diego stood there, looking at the final product, he knew that it was sufficient enough for its purpose. Over the past two months, he had been collecting pieces of a larger picture, and putting them all together on a board like this made it look like some bizarre puzzle.

Except, of course, not all of the pieces were on the bulletin board.

Diego glanced at the open folder lying on his bed. The one thing that remained was the letter, still hidden away in its envelope. He hadn't been able to bring himself to read it, not even after all this time. Maybe it was because, this way, he could still hold onto the smallest scrap of denial.

More likely, Diego just couldn't handle seeing the truth.

But the letter was part of the puzzle he was assembling, probably the most important piece. After all, it was _evidence_, albeit illegally hidden evidence. Maybe now was the time to finally face up to the facts and deal with the contents of the letter once and for all.

Diego stared at the envelope, silently steeling himself.

Then, very quickly, as if to prevent himself from thinking it through any further, Diego grabbed the envelope, slid the letter out, and unfolded it completely. Before he could stop himself, he began to read:

_Bernadette,_

_I'm not sure why you would want to after all these years, but I'll meet you at that place on the twenty-ninth. I would prefer if we met at ten at night. If you've got a problem with this, just send another letter._

_I don't see what's so important that we have to discuss it in person, when it would be easier just to talk over the phone. However, you must have your reasons. And I promise that I won't tell anyone about the letters, not even Diego. Whatever secret it is that you want to keep hidden, it'll be safe with me._

_See you on the twenty-ninth._

_Leo_

Diego stared at the letter for a second, not having registered most of its contents. Then, quickly, he reread it, and his eyebrows shot up into his hair when he realized what it meant.

Leo hadn't been the one who had arranged for the meeting.

Bernadette was.

For some reason, even though it meant that the two had indeed met on the day of Bernadette's murder, this seemed like a very significant detail.

Diego shook his head, reading the letter for a third time, just to make sure that he wasn't mistaken. It did indeed seem as if Bernadette had been the one who had asked to meet, which would completely discredit the claim that Leo had lured her to her death.

_Why didn't you read the letter before? _Diego thought scathingly as a smile broke out across his face. _You could have saved yourself a lot of pain in the process. You should call the police and–_

Then the thought occurred to him: The letter didn't prove anything. It just meant that Leo hadn't been the one to set up the meeting – it didn't prove that he hadn't killed his ex-wife.

Disheartened, Diego glanced at the letter again. His gaze found the phrases "that place" and "I won't tell anyone about the letters." Immediately, his curiosity was rekindled. What had Leo meant by "that place?" Were there any more letters that were hidden in Peter's apartment? And why did the letters have to be kept secret, even from their own son?

_Too many questions, not enough answers, _Diego thought.

Well, he had already learned _that_ lesson through the newspaper articles: Somehow, you had to find your own answers.

Diego glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he could make it to the detention centre before visiting hours were over.

Quickly, he stuffed the letter into the envelope, then the envelope into his pocket, and finally grabbed a notebook and a pen. Satisfied that he had everything he might need, he hurried out of his room and promptly crashed in to his uncle. Both of them stumbled backward before regaining their balance.

Diego hesitated for the briefest of seconds before responding, "The detention centre. I'm visiting Dad."

Craig's eyebrows shot up, but without missing a beat, he asked, "Want a drive?"

Rather than argue (and inevitably lose – Craig wasn't easy to beat in an argument) Diego nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Sure," he said. Then, not wanting to seem ungrateful, he added, "Thanks."

Craig didn't reply, and wordlessly, they both walked out to the car.

**-X-X-X-**

With ten minutes left of visiting hours, Diego and Leo sat across from each other. Leo looked like he usually did – relaxed and calm, but a little worn. Diego couldn't tell if it was from the stress of the trial, or from the effort of always putting on a facade like this. Perhaps both.

"Dad, I've got questions," Diego said, nervously fiddling with his pen.

Leo blinked. Diego knew that he had assumed this would be like all their other visits, quiet, in which they talked about absolutely anything _but_ the trial. This visit, however, would be completely different.

"What kinds of questions?" asked Leo, sitting forward a little in his chair.

Diego took a deep breath, his pen poised over a blank page in the notebook, ready to make note of his father's answers. "I know about the letters, Dad," he said quietly.

Obviously, Leo had not expected this. He sat upright in his chair, his gaze fixed on his son in shock. "L-Letters?" he spluttered. "What letters?"

Wordlessly, Diego reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. First he checked the camera on the wall, which was trained on the visitor's room, then glanced to the guard. He looked like he was sleeping, or at least, he wasn't paying any attention at all. Careful to make sure that Leo's body blocked the camera's view, he pressed the envelope to the glass so that his father could read the address.

Once Leo's gaze had fallen to the floor, Diego stuffed the envelope back into his pocket. "I read the letter," he explained. "Just this one. The one you sent two weeks before Mom–" A huge lump formed in Diego's throat. He tried to swallow it, but it was like trying to swallow an egg whole.

Thankfully, he didn't have to elaborate, because Leo seemed to understand. "Where did you find that?" he asked. He sounded genuinely curious.

"It was in my pillowcase," Diego explained, his eyes flicking to the guard. It did seem as if he was asleep, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. "I don't know why it was there, or how it got there. I just want to asks some questions."

Leo leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together, looking quite serene.

Talking this as a sign to go ahead, Diego asked his first question. "Did you tell the police?" he asked.

Leo shook his head the tiniest bit.

Diego stared at him, wide-eyed. "Why not?" he demanded. "You should have!"

"You didn't hand that letter over to the police, did you?" asked Leo, raising an eyebrow at him.

That shut Diego up at once.

"You're in no position to judge," Leo continued calmly. "In any case, your mother. . . Well, when her letters came in the mail – I threw them out, just in case you were hoping I'd kept them – she asked me to promise to tell no one. As you know, I promised, and I'm a man of my word. Just because she was – just because she's gone doesn't mean I can break my promise."

Diego made a note of this, though he couldn't help feel that this was unfair. He hadn't given the letter to the police because he hadn't wanted to incriminate his father – Leo hadn't told the police about the letters because of a promise. That wasn't quite the same thing.

"Do you know what she wanted to talk about?" Diego asked, pushing the thought away for now.

Leo shook his head. "She didn't want to mention it in writing," he explained. "Didn't want to talk over the phone, either. You'd think she was being watched constantly, the way she sounded in her letters."

Diego made another quick note over her reluctance to mention the topic. His next question was spawned by the word "letters." It had been mentioned multiple times now, in the plural, as if Leo had received more than one letter from Bernadette.

"How many letters were there?" he inquired.

"Four," Leo answered. "Two apiece. In her first letter, she asked if we could talk about something, and that I could pick the date. In my reply, I asked her why we couldn't just use the phone, but suggested either the twentieth or the twenty-ninth."

"That was when Mom said that she didn't want to talk over the phone, right?" Diego asked.

Leo nodded in confirmation. "She couldn't go on the twentieth, but the twenty-ninth was fine. She picked the meeting place, but forgot to mention a time, hence the letter you have in your pocket."

Diego began to scribble some notes down. "What's 'that place?'" he asked, still writing.

Leo looked a bit confused.

"The place you were supposed to meet," Diego amended quickly.

"_Oh_," Leo said, comprehension dawning over his face. "Well, it's an old café. It's got a lot of memories for us, and it's not that far from here."

"What's its name?" asked Diego, rather excitedly. _Finally! _he thought. _A lead that the police don't know about!_

"Joey's Coffee Shop," Leo said with a weak attempt at a grin. "The owner's not the most original guy in L.A."

Diego wrote down the name of the café and circled it. Twice.

"By the way, if you're thinking that the police don't know about the coffee shop, they do," Leo added, puncturing Diego's hopes. "It _was_ my alibi. I showed up there at twenty after ten – I was really late – but she wasn't there. I waited until midnight, but she never showed up. That's when I headed home."

As Diego jotted down the times, he remember the emphasis that Leo had placed on "was." "It _was_ your alibi?" he asked.

"Yep," said Leo. "See, the way the forensics figured it out, Bernadette was kill–died between nine forty-five and ten forty-five. That's a big window of opportunity for me to have committed the crime."

Diego made yet another note of the murder times.

"The cops know about the coffee shop," he repeated, just to be on the safe side. "So do they know you were supposed to meet Bernadette?"

Leo shook his head. "The police's story," he began, "is that I met up with Bernadette at the park, before twenty after ten. Then, I supposedly stabbed her, left her body there, and headed to the closest café in order to establish an alibi."

Diego nodded, trying to dispel the mental picture that his father's words had conjured. "Okay," he said. "I think I've got everything I need. For now."

Leo hesitated for a moment, as if thinking something over. Finally, he asked, "Diego, why?"

This question threw him off a little. "Why?" Diego repeated, nonplussed.

"Yes, why," Leo confirmed. He leaned in a little farther, and added in a barely audible whisper, "Why are you asking these questions? Why are you suddenly so interested in the case?"

Diego blinked. These were two very, very good questions. Their answers couldn't be attributed to mere curiosity, or a need to know things. He wasn't quite sure how to reply for a moment, but as he thought it over, the answer became clear.

"Because," he said slowly and clearly, "I've got to find the truth myself."

A heavy silence fell then, suffocating them. Diego watched as his father mulled this over – neither of them noticed the guard stirring, then checking his watch.

"Oh, damn!" the guard suddenly exclaimed, breaking the silence. "Visiting hours have been over for ten minutes! Come on, sir, we've got to go."

Reluctantly, Leo stood up – half a second later, Diego stood up as well. They stared at each other through the glass for a moment, not speaking.

Then Leo gave a small, approving nod, and walked out the door, the guard on his heels.

As Diego left the visitor's room and navigated his way through the labyrinth of halls, he mulled over what he had just learned.

Firstly, and most importantly, there was a significant window of opportunity for his father to have committed the crime, which had taken place not far from the café.

Secondly, Bernadette had been acting rather uncharacteristically by wanting to speak with her ex-husband in person. Surely, the unknown topic of the conversation might be important, but was her paranoia? Diego wasn't sure, but he decided to keep it in the forefront of his mind just in case.

Thirdly, there was a second letter, probably hiding somewhere in Peter's apartment. But _why_ were they hidden? Had Bernadette sensed that something would go wrong, and hidden both letters in the hope that someone would find them and piece everything together?

Fourthly, there was the café where Diego's parents were supposed to meet. Diego knew that he would have to pay the café a visit, maybe speak to any employees that might have seen Leo.

Fifthly, the park. According to Leo, the park wasn't very far away from the café. Diego could investigate both fairly quickly, but he didn't expect to find anything that the police had missed a second time. If he did, it was proof that the police force was _very_ lazy.

Without realizing it, Diego had exited the detention centre and was standing in the parking lot. His uncle was sitting in the car, waiting patiently for him – quickly, Diego walked over and climbed into the passenger's seat.

As he buckled his seatbelt, Craig said knowingly, "You learn anything important?"

For some odd reason, the fact that Craig knew that this visit was different from the others didn't faze Diego in the slightest.

"I don't know if I learned a lot of important things," Diego said, "but I'm a lot better off than I was before."

And with that, Craig silently started the car and began to drive, neither of them speaking for the rest of the night.

**-X-X-X-**

Around noon the next day, Diego stood outside Joey's Coffee Shop, clutching his notebook and a pencil. He'd spent about an hour trying to find the place – now that he was actually there, Diego wasn't sure if he could walk inside and ask the questions he needed to ask. What if any staff who had seen Leo weren't there? Worse, what if they refused to answer his questions?

Still, Diego decided, he would have to try. Steeling himself, he opened the door and walked inside.

The café was small, dated, smelled strongly of coffee, and, despite the "Open" sign on the door, deserted. The place was cluttered, with small tables packed close together. The walls were covered with framed paintings and windowless, giving the place the feel of a cramped box. There was no sign that anyone had been here in some time – Diego didn't have to wonder why.

Then, suddenly, there was a snore, and Diego gave a start, whipping his head from side to side to find the source of the noise. He'd been mistaken when he had thought the place was deserted – an elderly man sat at a table in the corner, slumped over in his chair.

Diego looked around to see if anyone else was there, but the old man was the only other person in the shop. Cautiously, he crossed the café and stood next to the table, then coughed.

The elderly man sat upright almost immediately, his eyes snapping open. "Huh?" he said groggily, looking round at Diego. Then his eyes widened, and all trace of sleepiness disappeared. "S-Sorry!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and knocking his chair over. "Didn't mean to fall asleep. . . You want a menu?"

Diego, completely taken aback, shook his head.

The man rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "You already know what you want to order?" he inquired.

Again, Diego wordlessly shook his head. "I just have–"

The man sighed, looking forlorn. "That's too bad," he said. "Hardly anyone comes in here anymore. . . haven't had any customers in a week."

If this was supposed to make Diego buy something out of pity, it didn't work. "Sir, I've got a couple of questions I'd like to ask," he said. "The police would have asked you about this already, I think."

The man gave Diego an odd look, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is it about that murder that happened back in April?" he asked.

Diego nodded.

"Listen, kid," began the man, in a somewhat patronizing voice, "you'll have to find somewhere else to play detective. I don't have the time."

Diego found this statement to be greatly ironic, considering that the man had been asleep just a moment ago, but didn't press the issue.

"Unless you're going to order something," he continued, beginning to chivvy Diego toward the door, "you've gotta take a–"

"You don't understand, sir," interjected Diego quickly. "I'm not playing detective. I'm being serious. The victim and the suspect–" Diego paused for a second, then finished, "They're my parents."

The man stopped dead and, for the first time, seemed to really look at Diego. The man's eyes roved over his face, and Diego saw a look of recognition dawn upon his face.

"Now that I think about it, you look mighty like Leo." He paused, then gestured to the nearest table. He added, "Have a seat and ask away, but don't get your hopes up. I've already been questioned by the police, and I doubt you'll get anything out of me they don't already know. Name's Joey, by the way. I'm the owner."

Diego sat and Joey sat across from each other. Diego opened the notebook to a fresh page and set the nib of the pen to the paper. Glancing up at Joey, he asked, "So, you were working here when the murder happened?"

"'Course I was," replied Joey gruffly. "I'm always working."

"So you saw my father come in here at what time? And what time did he leave?"

Joey thought for a second. "Uh. . . about ten-twenty. At night," he added, as if worried this wasn't clear enough. "Sat down, never moved. Then he left at closing time, which is midnight."

Diego's mouth twisted a little. He made note of the times, even though he'd already gotten that information out of his father. Looking back up at Joey, he asked, "And no one came in to join him?"

"Nope," Joey said, without even hesitating. "No one came in all night, except for Leo."

_Really? I wonder why, _Diego thought sarcastically.

It seemed as if Joey could tell what he was thinking, because he suddenly scowled. "Got any more questions?" he asked pointedly.

Diego paused for a moment, thinking. Was there any point in asking any more questions? Surely, if the police had already interrogated Joey, there would be nothing more he could learn?

Then, suddenly, Diego remembered something. Twice already today, Joey had referred to his father on a first-name basis, as if he knew him somehow.

"Do you know my father?" Diego blurted out.

Joey looked taken aback for a moment, as if this had surprised him. After a few seconds, he relaxed a little and nodded. "He and your mother used to come almost every week, years and years ago," he said, a little sadly. "Leo, he still came around occasionally. But I haven't seen Bernadette in a long, long time."

As Diego jotted this down, he asked absentmindedly, "And did you talk to my dad at all?"

Joey looked as if he was having a great internal struggle to remember details of their conversation. "He said hi, asked how I was doing, said he was waiting for someone, but other than that, no," he replied finally. "Never mentioned who he was meeting with, but whoever it was, they never showed up. He was the only customer in the café that night." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "Anything else?"

Dispirited, Diego shook his head. "No, I think I've got all that I need," he said as he stood up. "Thanks for your help."

"No problem," Joey replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Do you go visit your dad?"

"Of course I do."

Joey nodded approvingly. "Good for you," he said. "Well, when you visit him next, tell him that I wish him well, okay?"

Diego nodded. "Will do," he said as he headed for the door. Before Joey could say anything else, he stepped outside and closed the door quickly behind him.

_That was a complete waste of time, _he thought to himself as he walked down the street. _All I learned was that the owner knew my parents. Big deal._

The lack of progress almost made Diego want to give up this ridiculous investigation. Still, Diego decided that he might as well go visit the park where his mother's body was was highly unlikely he would discover anything there, but at least he would be doing _something_.

It didn't take long to find the park, which was only a block away from the café. Diego half-expected to see crime scene tape plastered all over the place, or at least an officer standing guard, but there was no sign that the place had ever been the scene of a murder. People milled about everywhere, some walking dogs, others keeping an eye on their children as they played in the grass.

After half an hour of wandering around the park, Diego was forced to come to the conclusion that, even if he could find the place where his mother had been killed, there would be no evidence for him to find.

Feeling more hopeless than ever, Diego began the trek home.


	6. A Killer Unmasked

**I haven't updated since August? **_**What**_**? O_O**

**I'm so sorry about my lack of updating. I've had this chapter half-finished for weeks and I just didn't get around to writing the rest until now. I wasn't quite sure how to proceed without murdering it, I guess. I promise that it won't take as long to write the next one. Especially considering at what point I end the chapter at. XD**

**Stefan-sama: Unfortunately, you had quite a wait before you could find out what happens next, but I hope you enjoy it. :)**

**princessphilomena: My fingers are fine now, and will be until I make another stupid mistake during basketball. XD Thanks for the compliments on my mystery-writing talents, especially since we're not done with the mysteries after this case. . . 0:)**

**In this chapter, Diego makes a startling discovery, I steal a trick out of Phoenix's book from AJ, a (probably unexpected) cameo takes place that is more significant than it may seem, and the quote is stolen from the amazing song Wheat Kings. Fun? I think so. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**A Killer Unmasked**

"_In his Zippo lighter, he sees the killer's face  
Maybe it's someone standing in a killer's place  
Twenty years for nothing, well that's nothing new,  
Besides, no one's interested in something you didn't do"_

_-Wheat Kings, by The Tragically Hip_

**-X-X-X-**

It took exactly five minutes before Diego realized that he had left the park by the wrong exit. He had been so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed it, but now that he had, Diego realized something that was of much greater importance: He was standing on a familiar street. A _very_ familiar street.

Diego halted in his tracks, stunned. Someone bumped into him behind and cursed at him, but Diego ignored them completely. He began to rotate on the spot slowly, sweeping the buildings with his eyes until they fell upon an old apartment building that housed a certain, recently-widowed stepfather.

"The park's only five minutes from Peter's apartment?" Diego said aloud. "Hmm. . ."

_At least it explains why Mom would have chosen Joey's to meet Dad, _he thought. _It's not like she went there normally, according to him. So she must have picked it because it was so close._

Then, remembering that there was the possibility of a second letter hidden in Peter's apartment (and that he hadn't seen Peter in over a month), Diego decided to pay his stepfather a visit. He crossed the road to the apartment building, then climbed the stairs to the third floor, and knocked on Peter's apartment door. He half-expected for there to be no answer, but just a few seconds later, a young man opened the door.

Diego blinked at this turn of events, but rather than ask what the man was doing in Peter's apartment, he said, "Is Peter home?"

"Who's Peter?" asked the stranger, shooting Diego a suspicious look.

"He's my stepfather," Diego explained, returning the stranger's look in full. "He lives here."

The stranger looked puzzled for a moment – then, realization dawned across his face, and he shook his head. "He must have been the guy who rented this place before me," he said. "I'm the new tenant."

Diego stared at him for several seconds, not believing his ears.

"You okay, kid?" asked the stranger, looking concerned now.

Diego shook his head to clear it, then replied, "Sorry. It's just, I didn't know that he moved. . . How long have you been living here?"

"A couple of weeks," the stranger answered amiably. "I have no idea where he's living now, though."

His hopes of finding the second letter crushed, Diego turned away.

"Sorry about that, kid," the stranger added, sounding genuinely apologetic. "Wish I could help you out."

Diego turned back to him, a sudden idea popping into his head. "Well, you could, but it's sort of a strange request," he began, somewhat nervously.

"Shoot," the stranger replied.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Diego explained, "I came here looking for something. A letter, maybe in an envelope, hidden really, really well, addressed to a Bernadette Walker. You haven't come across anything like that, have you?"

"A letter, huh?" The stranger thought for a moment, tapping his chin with his finger. "Well, I do have _something _weird, but I'm not entirely sure if it's what you're looking for."

"Could you go get it for me, please?" asked Diego eagerly. "It might be important."

The stranger shrugged. "Okay," he said, without even the slightest hesitation. Disappearing within the apartment, he returned a few minutes later, holding an empty beer can. Handing it to Diego, he said, "There."

Diego, accepting the beer can, stared at it long and hard, struggling to come up with a way to politely express what he was thinking. Deciding that this was impossible, he finally asked, "And what the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

"Look inside the opening," the man said. "Don't you see something inside?"

Diego raised the can to eye level and peered inside – through the small opening, he could make out the shadow of something that had been stashed inside, but not what it was.

"Where did you find this?" Diego asked, perplexed as he pressed his eye to the hole in an attempt to see the object better.

"Well, there was a whole mountain of empty cans in here when I moved in," the man said, grimacing slightly. "I started throwing them out, and after a few days, I thought I'd gotten them all, but as I was clearing out the cupboards beneath the sink this morning, I found this can hidden behind a bucket."

"It was beneath the sink?" Diego said absentmindedly, still trying to discern the object inside the can. _Would the police have thought to check there?_ he wondered. _I doubt it, but this might not even be the letter. . ._

"I don't know if it's helpful to you or not," the man continued. "The letter you're looking for might be in there, or it might not. But may I ask why finding this letter is so important?"

Diego hesitated for a split second, then answered simply, "I need it to find the truth."

"About what?"

Diego didn't answer the question. Thanking the stranger, Diego departed without another word, clutching the can in his hand as he ran down the stairs and out of the apartment building. His only thought was to return to his uncle's house, and to find a knife.

Twenty minutes later, Diego darted into Craig's kitchen. Rummaging through the drawers, he found a sharp steak knife, then stood at the kitchen table, the beer can in his left hand, the knife in his right, and began to cut a large hole in the top of the can.

It took a few minutes before he completed his task. Lifting the circle of aluminum he had cut out of the way, Diego eagerly peered into the can, and his heart leapt when he saw exactly what he was looking for – a piece of paper, folded up into a tiny square and stuffed inside the can.

Drawing the piece of paper out, Diego began to unfold it. He felt no dread at reading the contents of the letter – in fact, he was quite excited by this new discovery, convinced that this piece of paper was the first letter that Leo had sent to his father.

Finally managing to unfold the letter completely, Diego began to read,

_Bernadette,_

_I won't deny that your letter surprised me. We haven't spoken in years, and I have no idea as to why you would send me a letter with a request to speak to me in person. Couldn't we just speak over the phone?_

_If you still want to meet in person, however, I'm free to talk on the twentieth or the twenty-ninth. The place and time of day don't particularly matter to me – you can decide those for yourself._

_Sincerely,_

_Leo_

Diego read the letter through twice before he was satisfied that he had found exactly what he was looking for. Even if it didn't really give him any new information, and smelled strongly of alcohol.

Still, he thought it odd that the police had missed two vital clues in two different places when they had searched Peter's apartment. Even if one of them _had_ been stuffed inside a beer can, it was no excuse for their sloppy work. Diego hoped that if he became a lawyer, the detectives would get their act together.

Absentmindedly, Diego tried to refold the letter, but he fumbled with it and dropped it. The letter fell to the floor, lying face-down, and as Diego bent to pick it up, he noticed something odd in the corner of the paper that he hadn't noticed before.

A red, fingertip-sized stain.

Cautiously, Diego picked up the paper and examined the stain without touching it. It was dry, had been dry for a long time, he guessed. He brought it to his nose and caught the faintest whiff of blood.

Diego stared. He couldn't help it. It was too surprising, completely unexpected, and inevitably, he began to have very bad thoughts.

Two letters, both hidden in Peter's and Bernadette's apartment.

Both letters completely absent of criminal intent.

One hidden in his bedroom. One stuffed in a beer can, a beverage which Peter quite enjoyed.

Bernadette not showing up for her meeting with her ex-husband. The meeting _she_ had requested, and which was so close to her apartment that there was no reasonable excuse for her to miss it.

A bloody fingerprint on the letter in his hands.

Bernadette, murdered.

The letter fell from Diego's fingers and gently fluttered to the floor. He stared blankly ahead as the last piece of the puzzle clicked in his head.

Leo hadn't murdered Bernadette at all.

Peter had.

**-X-X-X-**

Diego ran through the doors of the detention center, the newly-discovered letter sealed in a plastic bag in his hand. A woman working at the front desk looked up with a scowl, then, recognizing him from previous visits, greeted him with a polite, "Hello."

Diego didn't have time to exchange pleasantries. "I need to talk to Leo Armando," he said.

The woman didn't even hesitate before answering, "That's impossible."

"You don't understand," Diego snapped. "I need to talk to my father. _Now_."

"_You _don't understand," the woman replied calmly. "It's impossible. Mr. Armando is in court today."

Diego blinked. "What?"

"Mr. Armando is in court today," the woman repeated, in a tone that suggested that she _really_ didn't want to have this conversation. "If I remember correctly, the prosecution is presenting a key witness. . ."

But Diego had already turned and was sprinting out the door.

As he ran, Diego fleetingly wondered if this was the best idea. He had hoped to discuss the letter and his suspicions with Leo before going to the authorities. With Leo in court and the prosecution presenting one of their most important witnesses, there was no time for the conversation that Diego wanted. He might be too late if the witness had already testified, but Diego didn't want to think about what that possibility – the possibility that his father had already been convicted.

Besides, would the courts take a sixteen-year-old seriously? Diego hoped they did, because there might be some serious consequences otherwise.

Diego kept running.

Ten minutes later, Diego rushed through the courthouse doors. As he wove his way through the lobby, a major flaw in his plan presented itself to him: he had no idea where on earth he was going.

Diego stopped, annoyed and frustrated at the lack of foresight on his part. He turned, spotted a bailiff, and hurried up to him.

"Excuse me, but do you know what courtroom Leo Armando is in?" he asked breathlessly.

The bailiff gave him a quizzical look.

"It's important," Diego stressed. "I'm his son."

"Courtroom 7," replied the bailiff after some deliberation. "Down that hall, third door on the right."

"Thanks," said Diego, turning and running toward the hall in question.

The first two doors had signs hanging above them, declaring the rooms to be _Defendant Lobby 1 _and _2_. Judging by the fact that they were unguarded, Diego decided that court was still in session, and hurried on. He stopped at the third door, right in front of a bailiff who was sitting in a chair, snoring gently.

Diego ignored him and looked at the double oak doors. A sign had been hung on the doorhandle, reading, _Court in session_. Diego hesitated for a moment, unsure whether or not he should enter the room.

Then he glanced down at the plastic bag in his hand, at the letter inside it, and there was no doubt in his mind.

Diego began to push the heavy wooden doors open. They creaked loudly, and Diego half-expected the bailiff to be awaken by it, but all he did was let out a snort. Quickly, Diego heaved the doors all the way open and burst into the courtroom.

"_Hold it_!" he yelled, waving the plastic bag above his head.

Then Diego, getting his first real look at the courtroom, stopped dead in his tracks, staring as everyone else in the room stared back.

The room seemed to be overflowing with people. Stands – for he didn't know what else to call them – rose up to the ceiling, packed with spectators, all of whose faces were turned in his direction. More imposing than the hordes of people was the judge, black-robed and long-bearded, gazing down at him with a baffled look on his face from his seat on the opposite side of the room. There were two benches, probably for the lawyers – Diego couldn't see the bench that he thought belonged to the defence, as it was blocked by the witness stand, but the prosecutor, a balding man in his mid-fifties, glared at him disdainfully.

Diego didn't take much more than a few seconds' notice of any of these things, however. He was busy staring at the witness stand in front of him – or, rather, at the person on the witness stand, the one person in the room who wasn't staring at him. Although Diego couldn't see the witness's face, he would have recognized the man anywhere.

"Peter?" Diego said, dumbfounded.

The man turned around, and Diego saw Peter for the first time in weeks. He looked haggard, like he hadn't been sleeping well – stubble covered his chin, as if he hadn't shaved in a long time. Although his eyes were half-closed and sleepy-looking, Diego thought he saw a flash of fear in his stepfather's eyes.

The hand clutching the plastic bag fell to his side, and Diego stood there, glaring at Peter, hatred rising up inside him like a geyser. Peter's gaze followed the plastic bag,

"Um. . . young man, there's a trial in session here," the judge said.

Diego ignored him. "_You_," he spat at Peter.

"Diego?"

It was not Peter who had spoken, but rather Leo. Peter edged a little bit away from Diego, giving him a clear look at his father, sitting behind the bench that had been previously obstructed from view. Leo was half-standing in his seat to get a better look at what was going on, disbelief written across his face.

The man next to Leo was standing as well, his palms pressed against the table as he leaned forward to see who had caused all this commotion.

"Who is this, Mr. Armando?" asked the man, who Diego presumed to be his father's lawyer.

"H-He's my son, Mr. Hammond," stammered Leo.

"Well, regardless of whether or not he's your son," Hammond said, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest as he gazed at Diego, "he doesn't have the right to burst into the courtroom during the middle of a cross-examination."

Leo ignored Hammond, gazing perplexedly at his son. "What are you doing here, Diego?" he asked.

Diego was still glaring at Peter, but hearing his father's question, he held up the plastic bag again, high over his head so that the whole courtroom could see.

"I have evidence," Diego declared.

The crowd exploded into a frenzy of speculation, and the judge had to bang his gavel against his little desk for five minutes straight before he could finally get them to calm down. During the hubbub, the bailiff finally entered the courtroom and grabbed Diego's arm, staring up at the judge as he waited for further orders. Peter had paled noticeably and was clutching the sides of the witness stand for support as he gazed imploringly at his stepson.

Once the courtroom was quiet and calm again (except for a few mutterings), the judge turned to Diego, his eyebrows knit together in a frown. "Diego, is it?" he asked.

Diego nodded mutely, still glaring in Peter's direction.

"Well, Diego," the judge said, slightly uncertainly, "I don't know if you're aware of this, but you can't just burst into a courtroom and try to submit evidence without police authorization."

"I know," Diego replied shortly. "It's just that I wanted to make sure I got here... in time."

"In time for what?" asked Hammond disdainfully.

For the first time since Diego had entered the courtroom, he turned his gaze away from Peter and, wresting his arm free of the bailiff's grip, took a few steps toward the defence's bench. The courtroom was deadly silent now except for his footsteps, as if everyone in the room was holding their breath, and tension hummed in the air. Diego looked at Hammond, noticing the golden attorney badge on his lapel – the badge he too hoped to wear someday. He could just make out the scales of justice engraved in the center from where he stood facing Hammond, and he felt an insane urge to laugh at the notion that justice was being delivered in this courtroom, when the innocent man was locked away and the guilty walked free.

"In time to prevent an innocent man from being convicted of murder," Diego said to Hammond, his gaze still fixed on the badge, on the scales of justice. "In time to stop a grave mistake from being made. In time to make sure that justice is served."

"Diego. . ." Leo interrupted, a shadow of something flickering across his face.

Diego ignored him. Turning away from the defence's bench, he faced the judge now and gazed up at him. "Leo Armando isn't the man you're looking for, Your Honour," he said.

The judge sounded even more baffled as he asked, "Who is, then?"

Slowly, deliberately, Diego pivoted on his heel and stretched out his arm, pointing his index finger at Peter. His finger, his arm, his whole body was trembling from nerves, and Diego seemed to see things in slow motion. He saw the realization dawn across Peter's face, mingled with fear and defiance. He sensed rather than heard one of the spectators gasp high up in the stands, and the feeling of tension in the room escalated, as they waited for Diego to speak.

When Diego found his voice, he spoke two words in a calm, simple voice.

"He is."


	7. A Proimse to the Dead

**Hi, everyone. I hope you all had a very Merry Christmas (or a good December 25 if you don't celebrate it), and that you have an excellent New Year. And since one of my resolutions is to update more often, you get a brand-new chapter. Although it kind of fell apart in the middle. I wanted to push through it so that I could start on the super-dramatic courtroom scenes. (I just realized that I've never written an actual courtroom sequence before – the one last chapter didn't really count. Fail much?)**

**Oh, and by the way, if the lobby of Grossberg's law office seems really weird, it's not. I have a cousin who works as a lawyer and he showed me around the firm, and they had a room similar to what was described in here. I just Grossbergized it. XD**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

**A Promise to the Dead**

"_For every promise, there is a price to pay." –Jim Rohn_

**-X-X-X-**

_Obscure Murder Trial Rocked by Accusations_

_A murder trial in an L.A. courthouse yesterday made a shocking turn when the defendant's son burst into the courtroom, claiming that he had case-changing evidence that painted one of the prosecution's star witnesses as the true culprit._

_Sixteen-year-old Diego Armando accused Peter Walker of murdering his wife, and Diego's mother, Bernadette Walker. Armando, who refused to speak to reporters, sparked such an outcry with his accusation that court had to be adjourned for the day while his evidence was analyzed._

_Walker, who spoke to reporters after the trial's adjournment, said of the incident, "Diego's been hit hard by his mother's death, especially with his father on trial and all. I'm sure it's just the grief talking."_

_Leo Armando, the defendant in the case and the younger Armando's biological father, explained that he didn't know what had gotten into his son. "Diego hasn't talked to me about this at all," he said to reporters before being taken to the detention centre. "I know people will think I put him up to this, but I didn't have a clue that he was even going to show up today, never mind why he would accuse his stepfather."_

_While the police department declined official comment, a detective spoke on condition of anonymity. "Personally, I don't think the kid's got jack that would change our case," said the detective. "We're looking into it, of course, but I think he just wanted to help out his father and throw a wrench into the trial."_

_The elder Armando has been accused of first degree murder in the death of his ex-wife, Bernadette Walker, in April._

Diego threw the article away, disgusted. Thank God he hadn't gone to school today. The story had been all over the local news last night, and now it had made the _L.A. Times_. Splendid. Knowing the way that media worked, some out-of-state newspaper would pick up the story and republish it, and it would quickly spread to newsstands and televisions across the country. By the end of the week, the whole country would either think he was mad with grief over his mother's death or a hard-hearted liar.

Frankly, Diego didn't care so much about what the country thought as much as he cared about what his father was thinking. He hadn't had an opportunity to speak to Leo after he had disrupted the trial. Diego had been escorted out of the courtroom by an officer to one of the prosecutor's lobbies, where he had been questioned by the same detective that had interrogated him all those months ago.

Actually, it wasn't really questioning. It was an explanation about the protocol of bursting into courtrooms during the middle of a cross-examination, accusing the witness on the stand of being the real criminal, and waving around bloodied letters in plastic bags to prove it.

The first thing about the protocol was that you _didn't_ do that. The second was that, if you felt so inclined, you were subjected to fingerprinting and a lot of handwriting for the handwriting analyst ("so we know it's not a forgery, you understand, Mr. Armando"), and a long lecture about how you could possibly be charged with perjury for not bringing up the evidence earlier.

Diego had been especially annoyed at this. After all, he _had_ brought the evidence to the police – it had just taken him a while, and he had done it in a dramatic fashion, that was all, as he had explained to the detective.

"I know that, Mr. Armando, but the law is the law," the detective had said with a shrug.

Under his breath, Diego had mumbled, "It's the police's fault for being so damn incompetent, anyway."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

After that, Diego had scrambled out of the prosecutor's lounge in the hope that he could catch his father before he left for the detention centre. His hopes were in vain. Right outside the door was Robert Hammond, his father's lawyer. Hammond had in his hand two things – a subpoena that requested Diego to testify for the defence at the next court appearance, and the name of the law firm where Hammond worked.

"Why do I need this?" asked Diego, looking at the scrap of paper. _Grossberg Law Offices_, it said in a very neat, precise hand. _What kind of name is Grossberg? _he wanted to add, but decided against it.

"Well, we need to meet to discuss your testimony for your court appearances," explained Hammond, as if he were talking to a simple-minded child. "You don't have to make an appointment, just so you know. Your father's case is my top priority."

_If it's your top priority, why are you losing? _Diego thought scathingly. But outwardly, he was more polite. "Okay."

After that, disengaging himself from Hammond proved to be easy. Diego tried to get to find the courtroom where his father had been, but got lost. After a while, he ended up in the courthouse cafeteria. It was five minutes until the cafeteria closed, and Diego knew that his father was long gone by now. Visiting hours at the detention centre would be almost over by the time that he got there, giving him about thirty seconds to talk to his father if he was lucky.

So he called Craig instead.

Craig was a lot better about the fiasco than Diego had thought that he would be. Without asking any questions, Craig picked him up at the courthouse. The horde of reporters who tried to ask Diego questions might have sparked a remark from anyone except for Craig, who merely commented on the weather. It was like he was completely ignorant of the incident, and Diego almost tricked himself into believing that was the case.

Then, earlier that morning, just as Diego was about to get up to get ready for school, Craig had knocked on his door.

"Are you sick?" he asked pointedly.

Nonplussed and groggy from sleep, Diego replied with the first word that popped into his head. "No."

"I think you sound sick," Craig said.

"No, I'm not."

"I think you should stay home today," Craig insisted.

"But I'm fine," said Diego, confused. Then he realized what his uncle was saying, and his face reddened. "Okay, I'll stay home."

"Good," Craig said decisively. Diego heard his uncle as he walked away from the door, and later, the sound of Craig's car as it drove out of the driveway.

Diego drifted back to sleep after a while. A couple of hours later, he woke up and trudged out to the kitchen. As if to underline his point, Craig had laid out the paper on the kitchen table, so that the first thing that Diego saw was the article about that he had just tossed aside.

He sighed and glanced at the clock. By the time he got dressed, showered, and ate, the detention centre would be open to visitors. He could visit his father, but Diego wasn't sure if that was the best idea at the time. Leo might be furious with him. For all that he had said in the interview, Diego was sure that his father knew that the evidence he had given to the police was one of the letters, and Leo wouldn't like the fact that his son had betrayed his trust. Better to give Leo time to cool down, he decided.

But Diego was restless. He paced up and down the kitchen until he felt as if he were wearing a groove in the floor, desperate for something to do, someone to talk to.

Then, in one of those iconic light bulb moments, Diego knew exactly what to do.

After a quick shower, Diego grabbed a granola bar and hurried out of the house, locking the door on his way out. He took out the scrap of paper with _Grossberg Law Offices_ written on it. On the back, Hammond had included the law office's address. Luckily enough for Diego, he remembered the street, if not the exact location of the office, so he wended his way through the streets of L.A. at a brisk trot until he found it.

The law office was lucky enough to have its own large, three-storey tall building. When Diego entered, he noticed two things. The first was that the law office seemed to have more money than it knew what to do with. He was half-convinced he had gone into the wrong building. There were two large oaken pool tables that must have cost over a thousand dollars apiece, one set for a game, the other already in use by two of the office's younger attorneys. A large-screen television was mounted on the wall, tuned to CNN, with a collection of elegant/expensive chairs and couches grouped around it. A smaller television with a Nintendo attached sat in the corner of the room, accompanied by even more (slightly more battered) furniture. There were bookcases that contained everything from law books to mystery novels, and the floor and walls were made of darkly-polished wood. The only thing that hinted that this building was a law office was the front desk, where one of the secretaries was typing away at her computer.

The other thing that Diego noticed was that the place smelled oddly like... lemons. Why a law office would smell like lemons, Diego had no idea. He was more concerned about the pool tables, at any rate.

"May I help you?" asked the secretary, frowning at him.

Diego blinked, distracted, and looked round at her. "Um, where is Robert Hammond's office?" he asked.

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the secretary, almost disdainfully.

"No... but he wanted to see me. I'm Diego Armando," Diego explained.

The secretary`s eyes widened in sudden understanding. "Oh. Well, in that case. Mr. Hammond's office is upstairs, third door on the left," she told him.

"Thanks," Diego replied as he headed for the stairs.

The door that the secretary had specified was ajar. Diego cautiously knocked against it and saw Hammond leaning back in his office chair, chatting to someone on the phone.

"I'm busy," called Hammond, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

Mutely, Diego nudged the door open a little wider so that Hammond could see him. When Hammond realized that it was Diego, he sighed and turned his back to the door.

"Listen, I'll have to call you back," he said. "Okay, yeah, whatever. Bye."

Hammond hung up the phone and swivelled around in his seat to face Diego again. He was scowling.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" he asked.

Diego shrugged and, without invitation, he took a seat and looked round the room. Hammond's office was, in comparison to the lobby, bare. Its only furniture was a desk, a filing cabinet, and two chairs, one for Hammond and one for any unlucky sap who needed an attorney.

"Well, I'm glad you showed up, at least," said Hammond. "The next court session has been scheduled for Tuesday, and most of it will be centred around _your_ testimony. We need to prepare."

"Prepare?" Diego echoed uncertainly.

Hammond nodded and leaned forward in his chair. "I want you to tell me about that letter you gave to the police," he added, "and why you think that Walker might be the real killer."

So Diego told Hammond the whole story, from the very beginning. How he'd found that first letter hidden in his pillowcase, but hadn't opened it for weeks. How, when he had finally opened it, he had asked his father and discovered that Bernadette had contacted him with the request to meet. He explained that, when he went to investigate their meeting place and the park, he learned that Bernadette's and Peter's apartment was only a short walk away from where his mother's body had been found. And, of course, the shocking discovery that Peter had moved out, and the letter wadded up inside a can of beer.

When he was done, Hammond leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes closed as if he were thinking. After a few minutes of silence, his eyes snapped open and he fixed Diego with a stern look.

"But why would Walker want to kill her?" he asked, plainly stymied by this question.

This was a question that had puzzled Diego as well, but he had at least come up with a half-satisfactory answer. "I think that Peter found the letter. Only that one, not the one in my pillowcase, because Peter would have hidden it somewhere where I couldn't come across it easily. My mom probably hid them in different places as security, so that if Peter found one and did something about it, there would be another to find afterward. I. . . I think he knew what my mom wanted to discuss with my dad, and he didn't want that conversation to happen. He might have confronted her about it, and. . ."

Diego couldn't bring himself to finish, but Hammond knew what he meant, because his lips pursed and he nodded slowly.

"Why not rip up the letter, or throw it out, though?" asked Hammond absentmindedly. He didn't seem to expect an answer, but Diego spoke up anyway.

"Maybe he was drunk," Diego suggested in a small voice.

Hammond blinked. "What?"

"Drunk," Diego repeated, with a bit more confidence. "If he was drunk and he'd just killed someone, he wouldn't be thinking straight, would he? He probably saw the blood on the letter and panicked. He hid it in the best place he could think of – inside a beer can, stuck beneath the sink with a bunch of others."

Hammond eyed Diego in silence for a moment. "That's crazy," he said at last.

Diego shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?"

Hammond didn't answer, and promptly changed the subject by asking, "Do you have any idea _why _Mrs. Walker would want to meet with your father?"

"No, I don't, and neither did Dad," Diego answered.

Sighing, Hammond picked up a pencil from his desk and rolled it between his fingers. "You'll have to do better than that. If we don't know the purpose of the meeting, then Mr. Walker has no motive," he reminded him in a patronizing voice. "If Mr. Walker has no motive, your accusation is worthless, and this has all been a waste of time."

"The police haven't found a motive for my father, either," Diego replied, bristling at Hammond's tone. "Yet their case is strong – unlike yours."

"Are you insinuating that I don't know how to do my job?" Hammond snapped, suddenly hostile.

_Yes, _Diego thought, but he didn't dare to say it aloud, so he said nothing.

Hammond, scowling, set down his pencil. "I know that you aren't schooled in the way of the law," he said, still in the same patronizing tone, "but to convict someone, you need three things–"

"The means, an opportunity, and a motive," Diego finished for him automatically.

"Well. . . Yes, exactly," said Hammond, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Right now, I have the means, and a possible opportunity. But no motive."

Diego noticed that he said "I," not "we." It only furthered his suspicion that Hammond didn't particularly care about saving Leo from a guilty verdict.

"As long as we've got the how, we don't need the why," Diego pointed out. "The letter will help smooth the way, too, when they finish the tests. Which would be. . .?"

"On Tuesday," Hammond answered, "specifically for your testimony. Which we really need to get back to now."

Diego nodded his agreement.

Hammond leaned forward in his seat, pulling a notepad and a pencil toward him. "Now, the prosecutor will probably ask you this. . ."

**-X-X-X-**

An hour and a half later, with the smell of lemons still burned into his nose, Diego took his accustomed seat in the visitor's room. His father was already there, as stony-faced and disconnected as the officer that guarded the room.

"Hi, Dad," Diego said wearily.

Leo nodded curtly.

"I just got back from talking to your lawyer. I'm testifying in court on Tuesday," Diego added.

"Well, that's nice," Leo replied, in a tone that suggested otherwise.

Diego sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He had been afraid that his father would still be angry with him, and it seemed that he had been right in thinking so. "Listen, I know that you're mad at me," he said, "but I didn't have a choice."

Leo's mouth twisted into a frown.

"I really didn't," Diego insisted earnestly. "I was investigating things for myself, and one thing led to another. By the time I figured it all out, you were already at court and Peter was testifying."

Silence.

"Did you want me to sit and watch while you were convicted of a crime that you didn't commit?" asked Diego incredulously. "Or do you care more about that promise you made to Mom than about your own life?"

Leo looked as if he'd been slapped. "I made that promise because she asked me to," he said, finally startled into speech. "I'm a man of my word, you know that."

"But she's _dead_, Dad," Diego reminded him, his hands clenching themselves into tight fists. He felt his eyes stinging with tears again, but he fought them back, determined not to cry.

"What's the difference between a promise made to the living and one made to the dead?" Leo asked.

Diego couldn't believe this. What was _wrong_ with his father? Was he so determined to honour a promise made to his ex-wife, someone he had barely tolerated for years and never spoke to, someone who was now _dead_, that he was willing to face the hangman's noose?

He stood up, unable to stand it any longer. He turned to go, intending to leave in silence, but at the door, he couldn't resist turning around to speak to his father one last time.

"Mom is dead," he said, and the stinging in his eyes returned, accompanied by tears in his eyes. "Murdered. But not by you. You may have made a promise, and you may be willing to die for it, but I'm not going to sit here and let it happen. I'm going to make damned sure that you walk free, and the right man ends up behind bars once and for all."

Then he stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut behind him. Diego thought that he heard his father say his name, but he couldn't be sure, and in any case, he didn't want to check. He set his back to the door and gazed at the opposite wall as he tried to control the tears that threatened him.

"After all," he whispered to himself, "that's what a lawyer does."


	8. A War of Words

**epikphayliur: Why does this not have more reviews? Um, probably the reason why I rarely review fics – people are lazy. XD**

**Stefan-Sama: No worries. Every time I review I sound like a broken record. Which is reason number two why I only review on occasion.**

**Okay, so here's the next chapter. I sacrificed several nights of pretending to study for my English final to get this done. I like some bits – we see some emergences of Future!Diego here, but I probably threw in too many smart alecky comments. Then again, that's not really my fault. -looks pointedly at username-**

**Just as a reminder, the court system was only revamped a few years before the beginning of AA. That's why some of the procedures in this are different (like the prosecutor being able to cross-examine as well as the defence). Sodon'tkillmepleaseandthankyou. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**A War of Words**

_"Be careful of the words you say,  
Keep them short and sweet.  
You never know, from day to day,  
Which ones you'll have to eat." -Anonymous_

**-X-X-X-**

The courtroom was packed on Tuesday morning. The stands seemed to be overflowing with spectators, come to see this trial that had made national headlines. Reporters and photographers fought for ideal seats in the front rows, and the judge was desperately trying to get the courtroom into order only three minutes into the day's session.

Diego, watching the scene from behind the door with the bailiff, felt like throwing up all over the nice, highly-polished tiles of the floor. Although he had been eager (maybe even excited) to testify in court earlier this morning, he was having serious second thoughts about it now that he had seen how many people had turned out.

"Order! Order in the court!" yelled the judge, sounding frazzled already.

The chattering in the audience continued, strengthened if anything else, oblivious to the judge's shouts.

The judge hammered away with his gavel. "If I don't have order at once, we will conduct today's trial _without_ spectators!" he bellowed over the noise.

Almost immediately, the crowd hushed into silence.

The judge coughed. "Um, thank you," he said sheepishly. "As you were saying, Mr. Coles?"

Coles, the prosecutor, was an aging man with a receding hairline. Wearing a drab gray suit and a blue tie, he was probably one of the most boring people Diego had ever seen. What he lacked in punch, however, he more than made up for in his businesslike manner. With his stern, unsmiling expression and the rigid way in which he conducted himself, he looked like the sort of lawyer who went for the proverbial throat of his opponent's case.

Coles began, "As you are aware, Your Honour, Mr. Armando's son interrupted our last session in court with a startling accusation–"

"Everyone is aware of that fact, Coles," Hammond interrupted him from his position behind the defence's bench. "What of the evidence that the younger Mr. Armando gave to the police? Have you received all of the tests back from the forensics department?"

Coles's mouth formed a tight, thin line as he glared at Hammond. "There were some delays," he said cryptically.

Hammond's eyes flashed. "But you _did_ get some tests back?"

Slowly and deliberately, Coles opened a battered black briefcase and extracted a large sheaf of papers. Holding them up so that the court may appreciate its magnitude, he said, "In the short time frame they were given, the forensics experts were able to complete the handwriting and blood analysis on the note that Diego Armando gave to the police. May I submit this into evidence, Your Honour?"

The judge nodded compliantly.

"And the results, Coles?" snapped Hammond.

Coles smirked a little. It seemed as if he was deliberately trying to annoy Hammond, a feeling with which Diego sympathized. "The handwriting is indeed the defendants," Coles said. "The note is not a forgery.

Chatter broke out amongst the audience again. The judge pounded his desk with his gavel, and after more threats of removal, they stopped talking again.

"And the blood mark on it?" pressed Hammond impatiently. "Is it the victim's blood, and is it indeed a fingerprint?"

Coles's mask of confidence slipped a little. "The blood on the letter is Bernadette Walker's," he confirmed. "And it seems to be a fingerprint."

This time, most of the audience had the sense to whisper quietly to each other rather than shout. The judge didn't even bother trying to subdue them.

"Whose fingerprint?" asked Hammond.

"We were unable to finish that particular test, unfortunately," said Coles. "It is being conducted as we speak."

The audience continued to murmur amongst themselves.

"Is that all, Mr. Coles?" asked the judge.

Coles nodded.

The judge turned his gaze to Hammond. "Mr. Hammond, I believe that you have a witness you would like to call to the stand today?"

"Yes, Your Honour," Hammond answered, his eyes flicking to where Diego stood hidden in the doorway.

"I have an objection, Your Honour," interrupted Coles. "As you no doubt remember, our last session in court ended before Mr. Walker finished his testimony. I believe that we should allow Mr. Walker to finish testifying before Mr. Hammond calls his witness."

"As my witness was the reason why court was ended so abruptly, and as he has shed considerable doubt on Mr. Walker's credibility, I think it best if we listen to his testimony first," Hammond retorted. "Therefore, your objection is overruled."

The judge banged his gavel against his desk. "Mr. Hammond, it is not your job to decide whether to overrule or sustain an objection," he reminded the defence lawyer. Turning to Coles, he added, almost sheepishly, "Objection overruled. Mr. Hammond, you may call your witness to the stand."

Mr. Hammond coughed, then announced formally, "The defence calls Diego Armando, son of the accused, to the stand."

The bailiff beside Diego gave a start. "That's us," he said.

Diego nodded silently and, without further prompting, stepped forward. The spectators, who hadn't noticed him before, suddenly broke out into shouts of, "Look! It's him!" A few of the reporters shouted questions down at him as he made his way to the stand, and bright flashes of light were accompanied by the clicking shutters of innumerable cameras.

By the time that the exasperated judge had reined in the crowd, Diego had been standing at the witness stand for a full five minutes. He felt oddly exposed, like he was being put up for display as he stood all by himself, faced with the imposing view of a judge, two lawyers, what felt like thousands of spectators – and his father.

Leo was playing with a pencil, focusing on it as if his life depended on it. He didn't look up at Diego, did not give one sign of acknowledgment that his son was in this very room. Diego felt his heart sink, and uncertainty and fear gripped him like a vice.

"Witness, please state your name and occupation for the court," said the judge once he had restored the noise level of the room to below forty decibels.

"Um... My name is Diego Armando, and I'm a h-high school student," Diego stammered.

"I understand that you are the defendant's son?" asked Coles.

Diego nodded and cast another look at Leo. He was trying to balance the pencil on his fingertip, resolutely ignoring his son.

"I would very much like to hear what you have to say about the note you found and gave to the police, Diego," said Coles, smiling in what he must have considered a reassuring manner but only increased Diego's sense of panic. "Could you do that for us?"

If Coles hadn't spoken so patronizingly to him, like he was a five-year-old child unable to grasp the concept that one plus one equalled two, Diego surely would have froze on the spot and been unable to give his testimony. But the tone of Coles's voice shattered Diego's fear, and he stood a little straighter, held his head a little higher. When he spoke, it was with a sort of arrogant confidence, determined to best this man who seemed to think him no better than a simple child.

"Of course, Mr. Coles," he answered, mockingly polite. "And while I'm at it, I would very much like it if you were to stop speaking to me in that tone. Could you do that for me?"

There was a rippling of laughter amongst the audience as Coles, startled, went red.

Although the judge looked amused, he tried to pull himself together long enough to say, "Mr. Armando, insolence toward the prosecutor can result in a contempt of court charge."

_Big deal, I might be up in court for obstruction of justice anyway, _thought Diego, struggling not to say it aloud. It seemed that Coles's comment had sent him into a sarcastic frenzy of sorts, and Diego wasn't sure if that contempt of court charge wouldn't be added by the end of his testimony.

"Can I give my testimony now, Your Honour?" asked Diego instead.

The judge nodded. "Proceed."

"I found the first letter in the pillowcase in my room," Diego began. "I recognized the handwriting as my dad's, and the date was not long before my mother... died. I couldn't bring myself to read the letter itself, so I stuffed it back in the envelope and tried to forget about it. Weeks later, I finally read it, and learned that it was my mother, not my father, who had arranged to meet, and that there was another letter involved. When I asked my dad about it, he told me that Mom never showed up, even though he waited at the cafe where they were supposed to meet for a long time. I went to the coffee shop myself to see if that was true, but I didn't find anything new. Then I cut through the park, and wound up at Pet– Mr. Walker's apartment. I hadn't been to see him in a while so I decided to visit. When I got there however, someone else had moved in. When I asked them if they had found any letters, they gave me a beer can with a piece of paper stuck inside it, only they didn't know if it was what I was looking for or not. I took it and cut the beer can open, and sure enough, the piece of paper was the letter I was looking for, the very one I gave to the police. I put two and two together and figured out that Peter must have killed her, and rushed to the courtroom as fast as I could. And... That's it."

The courtroom was deathly silent for a moment, making Diego wonder if he'd just said something incredibly stupid. He glanced over at Hammond, who gave him the slightest of approving nods. Although he didn't trust Hammond's judgement much, Diego felt relieved that he hadn't made a mistake.

"So," Hammond began, tracing the wooden grain of his desk with his thumb as he gazed at Diego, "how old are you again?"

"Sixteen," Diego answered.

"And you're the son of both the victim and the defendant, isn't that right?"

Diego nodded. A flurry of sympathetic whispers swept over the audience until Hammond asked his next question, at which point they all quieted, eager to miss nothing.

"Mr. Walker is also your step-father, is he not?" asked Hammond.

"He is," replied Diego, feeling rather robotic. He half-wished they could skip this part of his testimony and get straight to the actual cross-examination, but Diego knew that Hammond had to make him seem like a reliable witness. They had hammered out this question and answer session on Friday, but Diego felt as if he was spewing out garbage rather than actual answers.

"Did you ever suspect Mr. Walker of murdering Mrs. Walker before you found that letter?" Hammond inquired, raising an eyebrow at him.

Diego shook his head.

"Did you think that your father, Mr. Armando, killed your mother?"

Diego glanced at Leo. He seemed to be engrossed with the pencil, but he was no longer twirling it between his fingers, and Diego thought that he might be waiting on tenterhooks for his son's answer. Had his own son thought him innocent, or guilty?

This was a tricky question to answer. Giving the honest answer was difficult enough on its own, for at first, Diego hadn't known for sure what to think, which could be considered either a good or a bad thing. After discovering the first letter, he had been convinced that his father was guilty, but if he said that, it would be disastrous for Hammond's case. Yet if he said that he was convinced all along that his father was innocent, why take so long in bringing the letters he had to the police? He must pick his words carefully, or he risked losing his credibility. "A war of words," Hammond had called it as they had been discussing it in his office the other day.

"I was kind of conflicted," Diego said, trying desperately to remember the answer that Hammond had written down for him and given him to memorize. "There was no way my father could kill anyone, especially not his ex-wife. But there must have been a reason why the police thought so if they arrested him. It was just so difficult for me, trying to deal with losing both parents... I didn't want to think about the case too much."

There was some more sympathetic murmuring above the audience. Diego saw Hammond flash him a small smile, for this was what they had been aiming for, but Diego felt dirty for lying to the court. He wanted to slide down and out of sight, but he kept himself standing tall and straight, betraying no emotion except a sort of pained expression that felt silly on his face.

"Did your stepfather's behaviour change after Mrs. Walker's death?" asked Hammond.

"He drank a lot more than he used to," Diego answered carefully. "He drank quite a bit anyway, at least on weekends when I stayed with him and my mother, but he seemed almost borderline alcoholic after her... murder."

Hammond nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting," he said, although he had already known this beforehand. "Do you think that his drinking might possibly be linked to the guilt he felt for murdering Mrs. Walker?"

This question caught Diego off-guard. He'd been expecting another one of the softer questions that Hammond had come up with, something like, "By how much do you think his drinking increased?" This was _not_ on the list of "10 Easy Questions That Will Win Over The Judge." This was bordering the forbidden land of hearsay.

And indeed, Coles slammed the desk and objected for all he was worth, "Your Honour, this question is pure conjecture and slanders Mr. Walker!"

The judge, slightly baffled, nodded and attempted to look more businesslike. "Indeed. Objection sustained. This line of questioning will be struck from the record."

Ignoring the judge, Hammond leaned on the desk, gazing at Diego intently. "Do you think Mr. Walker might have been trying to drink off his guilt?" he pressed.

"Mr. Hammond!" exclaimed Coles and the judge at the same time, trying to stop him from continuing on.

"Do you?" Hammond stressed pointedly.

"Um... Yes, it's a distinct possibility," Diego stammered, although he hadn't even considered it before Hammond had tried to not-so-subtly point it out to him.

"Mr. Hammond! Do you _want_ to be brought up on a charge of contempt of court?" the judge asked, banging away at his desk with his gavel.

Hammond straightened up and coughed. "I apologize, Your Honour," he said, straightening his tie. "I simply got carried away. No further questions."

The judge looked uncertainly at the defence attorney. Apparently, he had been expecting a more spirited defence. "Yes, um, well, moving on," the judge continued, baffled but trying to get the situation in hand. "Mr. Coles, your cross-examination, please."

Coles shuffled the papers in front of him, eyeing Diego with what appeared to be some trepidation. Setting the papers down on his desk, Coles scratched at his chin absent-mindedly and asked, "So you kept this first letter hidden for how long?"

Diego's mind scrambled for the answer. "Since late April, or early May," he admitted after a pause.

"You didn't read it until recently?"

"No," Diego answered confidently.

"Why not?" inquired Coles shrewdly. "If _my_ father was on trial for the murder of my mother, I would want to know if he was guilty or not and have opened the letter immediately. So why didn't you?"

Coles might as well have punched him in the gut. How dare he speak so flippantly of something that had haunted Diego for weeks, with his "holier-than-thou" attitude? Coles had no idea what it was like, to wonder if the man who raised you was the murderer of your own mother, and to find evidence that might confirm your deepest fears.

Diego, shaking with rage, grabbed the sides of the witness stand and returned Coles's smug look in an attempt to force down his anger. "How do you know?" he replied with a question of his own.

Startled, Coles pulled back. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, has this ever happened to you, Mr. Coles?" Diego paraphrased his question.

"Um. . . No, I can honestly say it hasn't," Coles replied, confused.

"Then how are you sure you wouldn't react like I did? You can never tell how you'll react to something until you're put in that situation, can you?" Diego continued, and despite himself, he smirked as Coles slammed the top of his desk with his palms.

"Objection! Your Honour, the witness is stepping out of line," Coles said to the judge.

The judge nodded solemnly. "Objection sustained. The witness will abstain from cross-examining the prosecution."

The audience got a good chuckle out of that one.

Feeling much better now, Diego folded his arms across his chest, smiling mockingly at the flustered prosecutor. "Of course, Your Honour," he answered.

Coles coughed in an attempt to regain some of his lost dignity. "So your father knew about these letters?"

"Well, he wrote the ones I found. He would kind of have to," Diego pointed out.

"Oh, right," Coles said, faltering. "A-Anyway, why didn't he tell the police about it?"

Diego glanced expectantly at Hammond. "Objection! This line of questioning is useless. The witness can't be expected to speculate on the behaviour of the defendant," Hammond exclaimed, and Diego turned his gaze back to Coles, thinking, _Well, at least he has a clue._

"Yes, I noticed, Mr. Hammond," the judge replied coolly. "Mr. Coles, save this sort of question for Mr. Armando Senior, if you please."

"Right. Sorry, Your Honour." Coles shuffled his papers again. "You found the second letter in a can of beer?"

"Yeah, that was hiding beneath the kitchen sink in Mr. Walker's apartment," Diego answered.

Coles nodded to himself. "And it already had the bloody fingerprint on it when you examined it?"

"Yes."

"Why was your first instinct to suspect Mr. Walker once you saw that letter?" asked Coles, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

Diego took a deep breath to gather his thoughts. He knew that this was one of the more important questions that he would be asked, and he wanted to make sure he didn't bungle the answer. "Well, like I said earlier, he started to drink copiously, and the letter was stuck in a beer can. If you don't believe me, all you have to do is smell it. So I figured that it must have been Peter who put it there."

"But why would Mr. Walker hide the letter in the first place, rather than throw it out?"

"Are you admitting that my stepfather _did_ hide the letter?" Diego inquired innocently.

"That's– That's not what I meant," Coles said hastily. "We're speaking hypotheticals here. Now, answer the question, Mr. Armando."

Out of the corner of his eye, Diego saw Hammond open his mouth to repeat his last objection, but he had spotted a hole in Coles's reasoning and he was determined to point it out. "That doesn't really matter, does it? I mean, you can debate the why until you're blue in the face, but it doesn't change the fact that the letter was in the beer can, does it?" he asked.

Hammond's objection died on his lips, leaving him to stare in surprise at Diego. Coles looked increasingly angry and embarrassed to be bested by sixteen-year-old – the judge, however, taking it in stride, nodded in agreement.

"That's true," he said. "You can't really argue that point, Mr. Coles."

". . ." The judge gazed down at Coles expectantly.

". . ." Coles, oblivious to the judge, was glaring at Diego as if he could cheerfully strangle him.

". . ." Diego, unsettled by the murderous glint in the prosecutor's eyes, glanced over at Hammond.

". . ." Hammond, still in apparent shock at what Diego had said, was staring back at him with his mouth hanging open.

"Um, Mr. Coles? Have you any more questions for the witness?" asked the judge after a long pause.

Coles seemed to be torn between his desire to rip up Diego's credibility and the fear of being made of a fool again. And again. And again. Diego could see the struggle going on in his mind, but finally deciding to keep what dignity he had left, he said, "No further questions, Your Honour."

"Good, because it's almost lunchtime!" the judge exclaimed, patting his stomach and squinting at the clock on the wall. "The court will adjourn for a half-hour recess."

This, accompanied by a few quick raps with the gavel, brought an end to Diego's testimony. The crowd began to disperse to grab a quick lunch from the courthouse cafeteria as the judge climbed down from his seat. Coles was already halfway out the door, while the bailiff was ushering Leo out of the room. Diego, unsure where to go, made to follow his father, but Hammond and a man in a bright red suit appeared out of nowhere, blocking his path. Rather, the stranger was blocking his path – he was absolutely enormous, with gray hair and a moustache, and a pair of glasses. On his lapel was a defence attorney's badge, and the smell of lemons clung to him quite strongly.

"Excuse me," Diego said, not bothering to keep his exasperation from his voice.

Neither man moved. "You did very well today," Hammond told him stiffly.

The man in red, however, was a bit more enthusiastic. "Excellent show, Diego, old boy!" he said, grabbing Diego's hand and shaking it. "I was watching in the stands today, you see."

"This is Marvin Grossberg, a defence attorney and head of Grossberg Law Offices," Hammond added by way of introduction.

"Yes, well, very nice to meet you, Mr. Grossberg, but I wanted to talk to my father," Diego said as Grossberg released his hand.

Grossberg, however, had other ideas. "It's very difficult to catch Coles off his guard. I know – I've tried to do it many times," he said. "Many, many times in the days of my youth. . . like the smell of fresh lemon. . ."

Grossberg's eyes took on a vacant, nostalgic look as his voice trailed away.

"Yes, well," Diego said, slightly unnerved, "I guess that's a good thing, seeing as how I want to be a lawyer."

Grossberg promptly snapped back to the present. Raising his eyebrows, he asked incredulously, "Do you, now? Defence or prosecution?"

"Defence," answered Diego, attempting to push his way past Grossberg.

"If you still want to talk to your father, that won't be possible," Hammond said, noting Diego's persistence. "He's being put in isolation until court reconvenes. You can speak to him later, after he gives his testimony."

Diego blinked, surprised. "Testimony?"

"Yes. He'll be testifying after Mr. Walker, providing there are no upsets," Hammond told him.

He hesitated for a moment. After he testified, Diego had been planning on calling his uncle to be picked up, not knowing if he'd be able to stomach the rest of the trial. But his desire to speak to his father, to explain himself, won out over his fear of where the trial would lead to.

"I. . . I think I'll be staying for the rest of the trial," Diego said. "I guess I can talk to him afterward."

Grossberg smiled. "Ah, the eagerness of youth. . . like the smell of fresh lemon, you see."

Actually, Diego didn't see at all, but he smiled indulgently all the same.

Hammond checked his watch. "Dammit, there's only twenty minutes left before the trial reconvenes. I'd better get something to eat."

"Me too," Grossberg agreed.

Diego, who felt no desire to eat whatsoever, took this opportunity to steal away from the two men. As he made his way across the courtroom, he became aware that a knot of reporters stood there, blocking his path. Diego almost stopped and turned in the opposite direction – his steps faltered, and a sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. As they turned toward him, brandishing microphones and cameras in his face, Diego gritted his teeth and pushed his way through the crowd, out of the courtroom and toward whatever lay for him beyond it.


End file.
